C-n-^^^XL^.^,.-^^-  ,  ~-^^ 

REESE   LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
Deceived        WAR  15  1893        ,  ,8g    . 


Tributes  to 
SHAKESPEARE 


COLLECTED   AND   ARRANGED 

BY   MARY   R.  SILSBY 


NEW    YORK   HARPER   &•»    BROTHERS 
PRINTERS  6-  PUBLISHERS  MDCCCXCII 


Copyright,  1892,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


S3 


TO 

WILLIAM  J.  ROLFE,  LiTT.D. 

IN    RECOGNITION    OF    HIS    SERVICES    TO 

STUDENTS    OF    SHAKESPEARE 

THIS   VOLUME  IS 

Gratefully 


It  is  really  curious  .  .  .  that  almost  all  the  poets 
who  have  touched  Shakespeare  seem  to  become  in- 
spired above  themselves.  The  poem  that  Ben  Jonson 
wrote  in  his  memory  has  a  splendor  of  movement  about 
it  that  is  uncommon  with  him, — a  sort  of  rapture  ;  and 
Dryden  wrote  nothing  finer  than  what  he  wrote  of  the 
greatest  of  poets.— JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

(Shakespeare's  Richard  the  Third). 


PREFACE. 


FOR  several  years,  while  engaged  in  the 
study  of  Shakespeare  in  connection  with  a 
Shakespeare  Society,  the  editor  preserved  in 
her  note-books  every  poem  addressed  to  the 
dramatist,  or  inspired  by  his  genius  or  per- 
sonality, which  fell  under  her  notice.  These 
ranged  in  date  from  1595  to  1891,  and  filled 
many  pages.  It  was  merely  a  labor  of  love, 
with  an  interest  in  observing  the  variety  of 
styles  in  which  the  great  theme  was  treated, 
and  she  entertained  no  idea  of  ever  making 
any  further  use  of  the  material  thus  gath- 
ered. But  the  suggestion  was  made  by 
friends  that  if  these  poems  were  issued  in  a 
volume  it  would  form  an  interesting  collec- 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

tion,  and  such  she  trusts  it  will  prove  to  the 
lovers  of  Shakespeare. 

As  no  single  volume  could  include  all  the 
poetical  tributes  to  the  great  dramatist,  an 
effort  has  been  made  to  select  the  best  that 
have  been  printed  during  three  centuries. 

The  contemporary  poems  have  been  chron- 
ologically arranged  in  the  opening  pages  of 
the  book,  and  with  the  modern  poems  an  effort 
at  chronological  arrangement  has  also  been 
attempted.  Where  it  has  not  been  possible 
to  obtain  the  exact  date  of  a  poem,  the  date 
of  the  publication  of  the  volume  in  which  it 
appeared  has  been  used. 

Brief  explanatory  notes  have  been  added  to 
the  poems  when  deemed  necessary. 

The  collection  of  "  Brief  Tributes,"  at  the 
end  of  the  volume,  was  not  intended  to  be  ex- 
haustive, but  merely  to  include  short  refer- 
ences to  the  poet  that  came  under  the  editor's 
eye  while  gathering  the  longer  pieces. 

The  editor  cannot  too  strongly  express  her 
obligations  to  those  who  have  kindly  aided 
her  in  making  the  volume  complete.  Every 


PREFACE.  IX 

publisher  and  author  to  whom  she  appealed 
for  permission  to  use  copyrighted  poems  most 
graciously  assented;  and  the  interest  they 
evinced  in  the  plan,  and  the  encouragement 
she  has  thus  received,  have  made  the  under- 
taking a  pleasure  rather  than  a  task. 

The  editor  also  desires  to  express  her  ob- 
ligations to  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co., 
by  whose  kind  permission  she  was  allowed  to 
incorporate  the  poems  by  Holmes,  Longfel- 
low, Emerson,  Bayard  Taylor,  and  Mrs.  Piatt, 
and  to  draw  from  the  pages  of  the  Atlantic ; 
to  the  Century  Company,  who  added  their 
consent  to  that  of  the  authors  for  the  poems 
quoted  from  the  Century;  to  the  publishers  of 
the  Literary  World ;  to  Mr.  William  Winter 
and  his  publishers,  the  Messrs.  Macmillan  & 
Co.;  to  Messrs.  Stoddard,  Gilder,  Aldrich, 
C.  C.  Buel,  and  the  many  other  American 
poets  whose  poems  enrich  the  pages  of  her 
book. 

Dr.  William  J.  Rolfe,  to  whom  the  editor 
has  the  pleasure  of  dedicating  the  volume, 
writes  as  follows  of  its  plan : 


X  PREFACE. 

CAMBRIDGE,  Jan.  5,  1892. 

DEAR  MRS.  SILSBY,  —  Many  thanks  for  the  proof- 
sheets  of  your  book,  the  plan  of  which  you  kindly  ex- 
plained to  me  some  months  ago.  It  was  a  happy 
thought  to  gather  up  these  tributes  to  Shakespeare,  and 
it  is  remarkable  that  it  was  not  done  by  some  lover  of 
the  poet  long  ere  this.  In  Dr.  Ingleby's  "  Centurie  of 
Prayse  "  (which  you  tell  me  you  had  not  seen  until  I 
called  your  attention  to  it  when  your  book  was  just  go- 
ing to  press,  and  which,  as  you  say,  would  have  saved 
you  much  labor  in  verifying  the  text  of  certain  pieces), 
the  allusions  to  the  dramatist,  whether  in  prose  or  in 
verse,  in  print  or  in  manuscript,  between  1591  and  1693, 
have  been  collected  ;  but  there  are  comparatively  few  of 
these  which  would  properly  come  within  the  scope  of 
your  volume.  Many  of  them  merely  mention  the  name 
of  Shakespeare  or  refer  to  him  in  a  casual  way,  and  many 
others  are  in  no  sense  "tributes"  to  his  genius  or  his 
memory.  The  present  century  has  been  far  richer  in 
these  tributes  than  the  one  to  which  Dr.  Ingleby  re- 
stricted himself.  The  intervening  century,  the  earlier 
half  of  it  in  particular,  as  might  be  expected,  furnishes 
few  poems  for  your  list.  The  chronology  of  the  poems 
is,  indeed,  very  interesting  and  suggestive  to  the  student 
of  Shakespeare  and  of  literature. 

Allow  one  such  student  to  congratulate  you  heartily 
on  both  the  plan  and  the  execution  of  your  book,  and 
to  subscribe  himself 

Most  gratefully  and  cordially  yours, 

W.  J.  ROLFE. 


CONTENTS. 


Author.  Page 

Ad  Gulielmum  Shakespeare  .     .     .    John  Weever.  i 

To  Shakespeare Richard  Barnefield.  3 

Shakespeare Wm.  Barkstead.  4 

To  Our  English  Terence,  Mr.  Will  Shakespeare     .  5 

John  Davies  of  Hereford. 

To  Master  William  Shakespeare  .  Thomas  Freeman.  6 

To  Shakespeare     ....     Christopher  Brooke.  8 

Inscription  over  Shakespeare's  Grave 9 

Inscription  under  Shakespeare's  Bust 10 

On  Mr.  William  Shakespeare  .     .     William  Basse,  n 

Lines  on  the  Portrait  of  Shakespeare.    Ben  Jonson.  12 

To  the  Memory  of  My  Beloved    .     .    Ben  Jonson.  13 
Upon  the  Lines  and  Life  of  the  Famous  Scenicke 

Poet,  Master  William  Shakespeare    ....  17 

Hugh  Holland. 
To  the  Memorie  of  the  Deceased  Authour  Mais- 

ter  W.  Shakespeare      ....       L.  Digges.  19 

To  the  Memorie  of  M.  W.  Shakespeare    .       I.  M.  21 

Epitaph  upon  Mr.  William  Shakespeare  ....  22 

Shakespeare.     .     .     .     .     .     .     Michael  Drayton.  22 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

Author.  Page 

On  Worthy  Master  Shakespeare  and  His  Poems     .  23 

I.  M.  S. 

Upon  the  Effigies  of  my  Worthy  Friend  .     .     .     .  29 

Anonymous. 
An  Epitaph  on  the  Admirable   Dramaticke  Poet, 

W.  Shakespeare    .....     John  Milton.  30 
Extract    from   ' '  The    Hierarchic    of    the    Blessed 

Angells" Thomas  Hey  wood.  31 

In  Remembrance  of  Master  William  Shakespere    .  33 

Sir  William  Davenant. 

Extract  from  ' '  Jonsonus  Virbius  ".    Owen  Feltham.  35 

To  Shakespeare 36 

To  the  Same Thomas  Bancroft.  36 

To  Mr.  William  Shakespeare.     .     .      Anonymous.  37 

Upon  Master  William  Shakespeare 37 

Leonard  Digges. 
An  Elegy,  on  the  Death  of  that  Famous  Writer  and 

Actor,  Mr.  William  Shakespeare.    Anonymous.  42 

To  Shakespeare.     ....       Samuel  Sheppard.  44 

Elegiac  Verses  on  Shakespeare.    Samuel  Sheppard.  44 

To  Mr.  Clement  Fisher  of  Wincott 47 

Sir  Aston  Cokaine. 

Shakespeare  ........    John  Dryden.  48 

Shakespeare John  Dryden.  50 

Shakespeare Sir  Carr  Scrope.  52 

Shakespeare John  Dryden.  53 

Shakespeare Thomas  Otway.  54 

To  Shakespeare J.  Crown.  56 

Shakespeare John  Sheffield.  57 

Shakespeare Nahum  Tate.  58 


CONTENTS.  xili 

Author.  Page 

Shakespeare John  Dryden.  59 

Shakespeare John  Dryden.  59 

Shakespeare's  Mulberry  Tree  .     .     David  Garrick.  60 

Warwickshire — A  Song.     .     .     .     David  Garrick.  65 

Ode  to  Shakespeare David  Garrick.  69 

Sweet  Willy  O David  Garrick.  71 

The  Birth  of  Shakspeare J.  Ogden.  72 

From  "The  Rosciad"  .     .     .     Charles  Churchill.  76 

Shakespeare Robert  Lloyd.  78 

Shakespeare Anonymous.  79 

Sonnet Anonymous.  80 

The  Tomb  of  Shakespeare.      John  Gilbert  Cooper.  81 

To  Shakespeare Thomas  Gray.  92 

Monody Thomas  Warton.  92 

Shakespeare's  Monument  ....     Anonymous.  94 

Inscription  for  a  Monument  to  Shakespeare  ...  95 

Mark  Akenside. 
An  Epistle  Addressed  to  Sir  Thomas  Hanmer,  on 

his  Edition  of  Shakespeare's  Works  ....  97 
William  Collins. 

Shakespeare        < Alexander  Pope.  102 

To  the  Idol  of  my  Eye,  and  Delight  of  my  Heart, 

Ann  Hathaway 103 

The  Bust  of  Shakespeare 105 

Written  in  the  Visitors'  Book  at  Stratford     .     .     .  106 

Prince  Lucien  Bonaparte. 

Written  before  Re-reading  "  King  Lear  "     .     .     .  107 

John  Keats. 

Written  in  the  Visitors'  Book  at  Stratford     .     .     .  108 

Washington  Irving. 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

Author.  Page 

Shakespeare  Ode Charles  Sprague.  109 

To  Shakespeare      .     .     .    Walter  Savage  Landor.  120 

Written  in  a  Volume  of  Shakespeare 121 

Thomas  Hood. 

Shakespeare Hartley  Coleridge.  122 

Stratford-upon-Avon Henry  Alford.  123 

Shakespeare John  Sterling.  124 

To  Shakespeare     .     .     .    Frances  Anne  Kemble.  126 

To  Shakespeare.     .     .     .     Frances  Anne  Kemble.  127 
Written  in  the  Visitors'  Book  at  Stratford     .     .     .128 

Daniel  Maclise. 

Shakespeare Matthew  Arnold.  129 

On  Mrs.  Kemble's  Readings  from  Shakespeare .     .130 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 

Stratford-on-Avon Robert  Leighton.  131 

Poetry  Immortal    .     .     .      Henry  T.  Tuckerman.  132 

Shakespeare  in  Italy W.  S.  Landor.  133 

William  Shakespeare  .     .     .     .      R.  H.  Stoddard.  134 

Shakespeare 140 

Shakespeare O.  W.  Holmes.  142 

Ode  on  Shakespeare's  Birthday.      J.  H.  Sheppard.  146 

Shakespeare Henry  Ames  Blood.  150 

The  Stratford  Jubilee  .     .     .      Martin  F.  Tupper.  155 

The  Two  Poets.     . 156 

Shakespeare R.  W.  Emerson.  157 

Shakespeare R.  W.  Emerson.  157 

In  the  Old  Churchyard  at  Fredericksburg    .      .      .158 
Frederick  Wadsworth  Loring. 

Shakespeare Simeon  Tucker  Clark.  161 

Shakespeare's  Statue    ....       Bayard  Taylor.  162 


CONTENTS.  XV 

Author.  Page 

Shakespeare John  Brougham.   168 

Anne  Hathaway 169 

Scott's  Shakespeare 17° 

Shakespeare    .     .     .      Mary  H.  Welles  Pumpelly.   171 

Shakespeare H.  W.  Longfellow.   176 

William  Shakespeare 177 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 

Sonnet. — To  England  .  .  Algernon  C.  Swinburne.  178 
To  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 179 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 
With  "  Shakespeare's  Sonnets" 180 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 

Written   on    a  Fly- Leaf  of   "Shakespeare's  Son- 
nets"  Richard  Watson  Gilder.   181 

At  Stratford-upon-Avon    .  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich.   182 

Shakespeare J.  M.  Rogers.   183 

Hiram  Hayes  in  Stratford 184 

Shakespeare Charlotte  Fiske  Bates.   185 

To  the  Avon H.  W.  Longfellow.   186 

A  Word  for  Shakespeare  .  .  Benj.  F.  Leggett.  187 
Shakespeare  ....  Kate  Brownlee  Sherwood.  191 

Shakespeare Minna  Irving.   192 

Poet  and  Actress      .     .     .     Clarence  Clough  Buel.   193 

Shakespeare William  Leighton.   194 

Mankind's  Highest .  .  .  Wm.  Roscoe  Thayer.  195 
The  Poet's  Month  ....  William  Leighton.  196 
Shakespeare  ....  James  Newton  Matthews.  200 

A  Vision  of  Loss M.  L.  Henry.   202 

Shakespeare  ....  Alice  Williams  Brotherton.  204 
The  Dead  Lion William  Leighton.  205 


XVI  CONTENTS, 

Author.  Page 

The  Names Robert  Browning.  206 

The  Modern  Rhymer  .  Richard  Watson  Gilder.  208 
To  Modjeska  as  Rosalind  .  .  Oscar  Fay  Adams.  210 

Epigram William  Watson.   21 1 

Shakespeare's  Sonnets  .     .    Charlotte  Fiske  Bates.  212 

With  a  Copy  of  Shakespeare 212 

Charles  Goodrich  Whiting. 
The  Sermon  of  a  Statue     .     .     .       S.  M.  B.  Piatt.   213 

Written  in  a  Volume  of  Shakespeare 216 

Charles  H.  Crandall. 

After  Reading  Shakespeare  .  .  C.  E.  Markham.  217 
The  Childs  Fountain  at  Stratford-on-Avon  .  .  .218 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 
Hamlet  at  the  Boston    .     .     .     Julia  Ward  Howe.  223 

Since  Cleopatra  Died 227 

Thomas  Went  worth  Higginson. 
Across  the  Fields  to  Anne      .    Richard  E.  Burton.  228 

Ashes William  Winter.  231 

Guilielmus  Rex  ....  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich.  232 
The  Passing  Bell  at  Stratford  .  William  Winter.  233 
A  Bar  to  Originality  .  .  John  Kendrick  Bangs.  235 
After  Reading  "  Tamburlaine  the  Great "  .  .  .  235 

William  Watson. 
The  Twenty-third  of  April    .     .     .    R.  W.  Gilder.  236 

The  Thought  of  Shakespeare 237 

Richard  Edwin  Day. 

BRIEF  TRIBUTES  TO  SHAKESPEARE 238 


TRIBUTES  TO  SHAKESPEARE. 


AD  GULIELMUM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Honie-tongued  Shakespeare,  when  I  saw  thine 

issue, 

I  swore  Apollo  got  them,  and  none  other ; 
Their  rosie-tinted  features  clothed  in  tissue, 
Some  heaven -borne  goddesse   said  to  be 

their  mother ; 

Rose-cheekt  Adonis  with  his  amber  tresses ; 
Faire  fire-hot  Venus  charming  him  to  love 

her; 

Chaste  Lucretia,  virgine-like  her  dresses ; 
Proud  lust-stung  Tarquine  seeking  still  to 
prove  her ; 


2  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Romeo ;  Richard ;  more  whose  names  I  know 

not, 
Their  sugred  tongues,  and  power-attractive 

beauty, 
Say  they  are  saints,  although  that  saints  they 

show  not ; 
For    thousand   vowes    to    them    subjective 

dutie. 
They  burn  in  love,  thy  children,  Shakespeare. 

Let  them ; 

Go  woo  thy  Muse  !     More  nymphish  brood 
beget  them ! 

JOHN  WEEVER  (1576-1632). 

[Weaver  composed  his  book,  entitled  "  Epi- 
grammes  in  the  oldest  cut  and  newest  Fashion," 
in  1595,  when  he  was  nineteen  years  old.  This 
is  the  22d  Epigram  of  the  Fourth  Weeke,  and 
is  valuable  as  an  early  contemporary  reference 
to  Shakespeare.] 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 


TO  SHAKESPEARE. 

And  Shakespeare,  thou   whose   hony- flowing 

Vaine, 

(Pleasing  the  World),  thy  Praises  doth  obtaine, 
Whose  Venus  and  whose  Lucrece  (sweete  and 

chaste), 
Thy  Name  in  Fame's  immortall  Booke  have 

plac't, 

Live  ever  you ;  at  least,  in  Fame  live  ever ! 
Well  may  the  Bodye  die,  but  Fame  dies  never. 
RICHARD  BARNEFIELD  (1574-1605). 

[These  lines  form  the  fourth  stanza  in  a  poem 
entitled  "A  Remembrance  of  Some  English 
Poets,"  in  Barnefield's  "  Poems  in  Divers  Hu- 
mors," published  in  1598.  The  first  stanza  is  on 
Spenser,  the  second  on  Daniell,  and  the  third  on 
Drayton.  Barnefield's  "  Ode  to  the  Nightingale," 
"  As  it  fell  upon  a  day,"  etc.,  had  the  honor  of 
being  attributed  to  Shakespeare.] 


4  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

But  stay  my  muse !    in  thine   owne  confines 

keepe, 
&    wage    not   warre  with    so    deere   lov'd 

a  neighbor. 

But  having  sung  thy  day  song  rest  and  sleepe 
preserve   thy   small   fame   and  his   greater 

favor ; 
His    song   was    worthie  merrit  (Shakespeare 

hee) 
sung  the  faire  blossome,  thou  the  withered 

tree. 
Laurell  is  due  to  him,  his  art  and  wit 

hath  purchast  it,  Cypress  thy  brow  will  fit. 
WM.  BARKSTEAD  (1607). 

[From  "  Myrrha,  the  Mother  of  Adonis,  or 
Lust's  Prodigies,  a  Poem,"  1607.  William  Bark- 
stead  was  an  actor  and  dramatist  in  the  reign 
of  James  I.] 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  5 

TO  OUR  ENGLISH   TERENCE,  MR.  WILL 
SHAKESPEARE. 

Some  say,  good  Will,  which  I  in  sport  do  sing, 
Hadst  thou  not  plaid  some  kingly  parts  in 
sport, 

Thou  hadst  bin  a  companion  for  a  king ; 
And  bin  a  king  among  the  meaner  sort. 

Some  others  raile ;  but,  raile  as  they  thinke 

fit, 

Thou  hast  no  railing,  but  a  reigning  wit, 
And  honesty,  thou   sow'st   which   they   do 

reape, 

So  to  increase  their  stocke,  which  they  do 
keepe. 

JOHN  DAVIES  of  Hereford. 

("Scourge  of  Folly,"  1607.) 

[John  Davies,  the  epigrammatist,  the  author 
of  the  above,  was  a  native  of  Hereford,  and  was 
educated  at  Oxford ;  he  was  famous  as  a  poet 
and  writing-master,  and  became  one  of  the  in- 
structors of  Prince  Henry  at  the  Court  of  James  I. 
He  was  not  related  to  Sir  John  Davies.  "  The 


6  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Scourge  of  Folly  "  consisted  of  "  Epigrams  and 
others  in  her  many  noble  and  worthy  Persons  of 
our  Land."  The  book  is  now  very  rare  and  costly ; 
the  verses  scarcely  rise  above  doggerel.  Davies 
lived  among  great  scholars  and  wits  :  with  Beau- 
mont, Fletcher,  Jonson,  Marston,  Bacon,  Dray- 
ton,  Sidney,  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  and,  greatest  of 
all,  Shakespeare ;  to  all  of  whom  he  addressed 
epigrams.  This  one  to  Shakespeare  implies  a 
singular,  and  otherwise  unknown,  circumstance 
of  Shakespeare's  life,  and  leads  us  to  suppose 
that  he  had  given  offence  to  King  James  by 
performing  the  character  of  a  king,  and  that  this 
stood  in  the  way  of  his  rising  in  favor  at  court. 
We  cannot  term  the  comparison  of  Shakespeare 
to  Terence  an  especially  felicitous  one.] 


TO  MASTER  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Shakespeare,  that  nimble  Mercury,  thy  braine, 
Lulls  many  hundred  Argus'- eyes  asleepe ; 

So  fit  for  all  thou  fashionest  thy  vein, 

At  th'  horse -foot  fountain  thou  hast  drunk 
full  deepe, 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  7 

Virtue's  or  vice's  theme  to  thee  all  one  is ; 

Who  loves  chaste  life,  there's  Lucreece  for 

a  teacher; 
Who  lists  read  lust,  there's  Venus  and  Adonis, 

True  model  of  a  most  lascivious  lecher; 
Besides,  in  plays  thy  wit  winds  like  Meander, 

Whence  needy  new  composers  borrow  more 
Than  Terence  doth  from  Plautus  or  Menander, 

But  to  praise  thee  aright  I  want  thy  store. 
Then  let  thine  owne  works  thine  owne  worth 

upraise, 
And  help  f  adorn  thee  with  deserved  Baies. 

THOMAS  FREEMAN. 
("  Rub  and  a  Great  Cast,"  1614.) 

[The  book  from  which  this  tribute  to  Shake- 
speare is  taken  is  now  extremely  rare ;  only  two 
or  three  copies  are  known  to  be  extant.  It  con- 
tained two  hundred  epigrams,  and  was  published 
in  1614,  when  the  author  was  about  twenty-three 
years  of  age.  It  is  said  that  he  was  the  friend 
of  Shakespeare,  Donne,  Chapman,  and  Heywood, 
to  some  of  whose  judgments  he  submitted  his 
epigrams.] 


8  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

TO  SHAKESPEARE. 

To  him  that  impt  my  fame  with  Clio's  quill, 
Whose   magick   rais'd   me   from  Oblivion's 

den ; 
That  writ  my  story  on  the  Muses'  hill, 

And  with  my  actions  dignified  his  pen ; 
He  that  from  Helicon  sends  many  a  rill, 
Whose  nectar'd  veins  are  drunk  by  thirsty 

men, 
Crown'd  be  his  style  with  fame,  his  head  with 

baies, 
And  none  detract,  but  gratulate  his  praise. 

Yet  if  his  scenes  have  not  engrost  all  grace, 
The   much  famed   actor   could    extend   on 
stage, 

If  Time  or  Memory  have  left  a  place 

For  me  to  fill  t'  enform  this  ignorant  age ; 

In  that  intent  I  show  my  horrid  face, 
Imprest  with  fear  and  characters  of  rage, 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  9 

Nor  acts  nor  chronicles  could  e'er  contain 
The  hell-deep  reaches  of  my  soundless  brain. 

C.  B.  (Christopher  Brooke). 
("The  Ghost  of  Richard  the  Third,"  1614.) 

[These  lines  are  from  Christopher  Brooke's 
poems,  published  in  1614  with  the  following  title  : 
"  The  Ghost  of  Richard  the  Third,  Expressing 
himself  in  these  three  Parts:  i.  His  Character. 
2.  His  Legend.  3.  His  Tragedie.  Containing 
more  of  him  than  hath  been  heretofore  shewed ; 
either  in  Chronicles,  Playes  or  Poems."  It  is  in- 
teresting not  only  from  its  reference  to  Shake- 
speare's "  Richard  the  Third,"  but  that  it  con- 
tains also  several  lines  quoted  from  Shakespeare's 
play.] 


INSCRIPTION 

ON  THE  TABLET  OVER  SHAKESPEARE'S 
GRAVE. 

APRIL  25.  1616. 

Good  frend  for  Jesus  sake  forbeare, 
To  digg  the  dust  encloased  heare : 
Bleste  be  ye  man  y*  spares  these  stones, 
And  curst  be  he  y*  moves  my  bones. 


10  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

INSCRIPTION 

UPON    THE   TABLET    UNDER    SHAKE- 
SPEARE'S  BUST. 

In  the  Chancel  North  Wall  of  Stratford  Church. 

Ivdicio  Pylivm,  genio  Socratem,  arte  Maronem, 
Terra  tegit,  popvlys  maeret,  Olympvs  habet. 

Stay  Passenger,  why  goest  thou  by  so  fast  ? 
Read  if  thou  canst,  whom  envious  Death  hath 

plast, 
With    in    this    monvment    Shakspeare    with 

whome 
Qvick  Nature  dide  :    whose  name  doth  deck 

ys  Tombe 

Far  more  then  cost :  sieh  all,  y*  He  hath  writt, 
Leaves  living  art,  bvt  page,  to  serve  his  Witt. 

Obiit  Ano  Do'  1616. 
JEtatis,  53,  Die  23  Ap. 
(1617-1622.) 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  II 

ON  MR.  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Renowned  Spenser,  lie  a  thought  more  nigh 
To  learned  Beaumont,  and  rare  Beaumont  lie 
A  little  nearer  Chaucer,  to  make  room 
For  Shakespeare  in  your  threefold,  fourfold 

tomb. 

To  lodge  all  four  in  one  bed  make  a  shift 
Until  Domes  day,  for  hardly  will  a  fifth 
Betwixt  this  day  and  that,  by  fate  bee  slaine, 
For  whom  the  curtains  shal  bee  drawne  againe. 
But  if  Precedencie  in  death  doe  barre, 
A  fourth  place  in  your  sacred  Sepulcher ; 
In  this  uncarved  marble  of  thy  owne, 
Sleep,  brave  Tragedian,  Shakespeare !   sleepe 

alone ; 

Thy  unmolested  rest,  thy  unshared  cave, 
Possess  as  lord,  not  tenant,  to  thy  grave, 
That  unto  others,  it  may  counted  bee 
Honour  hereafter  to  bee  layed  by  thee. 

WILLIAM  BASSE,  1622. 


12  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

[There  are  many  versions  of  this  epitaph, 
which  was  written  in  1622,  and  attributed  to 
William  Basse;  it  is  claimed  to  be  the  first  writ- 
ten on  Shakespeare.  There  are  six  manuscript 
copies  of  it  known  to  be  extant,  in  which  the 
form  is  altered,  as  it  is  also  in  the  printed 
versions  in  Donne's  Poems,  and  appended  to 
Shakespeare's  Poems.] 


LINES   ON   THE   PORTRAIT   OF 
SHAKESPEARE. 

This  Figure  that  thou  here  seest  put, 

It  was  for  gentle  Shakespeare  cut ; 

Wherein  the  Graver  had  a  strife 

With  Nature  to  out-doo  the  life; 

O,  could  he  but  have  drawne  his  wit 

As  well  in  brasse  as  he  hath  hit 

His  face ;  the  Print  would  then  surpasse, 

All  that  was  ever  writ  in  brasse, 

But  since  he  cannot,  Reader,  looke 

Not  at  his  Picture,  but  his  Booke. 

BEN  JONSON. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  13 

[These  lines  —  "To  the  Reader"  —  face  the 
Droeshout  portrait  of  Shakespeare,  prefixed  to 
the  first  folio  edition  of  his  Works  (1623),  and 
are  also  found  in  the  second  (1632),  third  (1664), 
and  fourth  (1685)  folios.] 


To  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  BELOVED, 

THE    AUTHOR 

MR.    WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE, 

AND  WHAT   HE   HATH   LEFT    US. 

To  draw  no  envy  (Shakespeare)  on  thy  name, 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  Booke  and  Fame ; 
While  I  confesse  thy  writings  to  be  such, 
As  neither   Man,  nor    Muse,  can   praise  too 

much. 
'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.  .  .  . 

Soule  of  the  Age ! 
The   applause !    delight !    the  wonder  of  our 

Stage ! 

My  Shakespeare,  rise ;  I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lye 
A  little  further  to  make  thee  a  roome ; 
Thou  art  a  Moniment,  without  a  tombe, 


14  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

And  art  alive  still,  while  thy  Booke  doth  live, 
And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give. 
That  I  not  mix  thee  so,  my  brain  excuses ; 
I  mean  with  great,  but  disproportion^  muses : 
For,  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years, 
I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers, 
And  tell,  how  farre  thou  didst  our  Lyly  out- 
shine, 

Or  sporting  Kid,  or  Marlowe's  mighty  line, 
And  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin,  and  less 

Greek, 

From  thence  to  honour  thee,  I  would  not  seek 
For  names;    but  call   forth   thundering   y£s- 

chylus, 

Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us, 
Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead, 
To  live  again,  to  .hear  thy  buskin  tread 
And  shake  a  stage ;  or,  when  thy  socks  were 

on, 

Leave  thee  alone,  for  the  comparison 
Of  all,  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 
Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  15 

Triumph,  my  Britain,  thou  hast  one  to  show, 
To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 
He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time  ! 
And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime, 
When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warme 
Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charme  ! 
Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs, 
And  joy'd  to  weare  the  dressing  of  his  lines  ! 
Which  were   so   richly   spun,   and   woven   so 

fit, 

As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit. 
The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 
Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please ; 
But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie, 
As  they  were  not  of  Nature's  family. 
Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all ;  thy  art, 
My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part ; 
For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be, 
His  art  doth  give  the  fashion ;  and  that  he 
Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line,  must  sweat 
(Such   as   thine   are),   and   strike  the  second 
heat 


1 6  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Upon  the  muses'  anvil ;  turn  the  same 
(And  himself  with  it)  that  he  thinks  to  frame 
Or  for  the  laurel  he  may  gain  a  scorn, 
For  a  good  poet's  made  as  well  as  born  ; 
And  such  wert  thou.     Look,  how  the  father's 

face 

Lives  in  his  issue ;  even  so  the  race 
Of  Shakespeare's  mind,  and  manners,  brightly 

shines 

In  his  well-turned  and  true-filed  lines ; 
In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 
As  brandish'd  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 
Sweet  Swan  of  Avon  !  what  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appeare 
And   make  those   flights  upon  the  banks    of 

Thames, 

That  so  did  take, Eliza  and  our  James  ! 
But  stay !  I  see  thee  in  the  Hemisphere 
Advanced,  and  made  a  Constellation  there  ! 
Shine  forth,  thou  Starre  of  Poets,  and  with  rage, 
Or   influence,  chide,  or   cheere  the   drooping 

Stage ; 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  17 

Which,    since    thy    flight    fro'    hence,    hath 

mourn'd  like  night, 

And  despaires  day,  but  for  thy  Volume's  light. 

BEN  JONSON. 

[This  eulogy  was  prefixed  to  the  first   folio, 

1623.] 


UPON    THE   LINES  AND   LIFE   OF   THE 

FAMOUS  SCENICKE  POET, 
MASTER  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Those  hands,  which  you  so  clapt,  go  now,  and 
wring 

You  Britaine's  brave;  for  done  are  Shake- 
speare's dayes ; 

His  dayes  are  done,  that  made  the  dainty 
Playes 

Which  made  the  Globe  of  heav'n  and  earth 
to  ring. 

Dry'de  is  that  veine,  dry'd  is  the  Thespian 
Spring, 


1 8  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Turn'd  all  to  teares,  and  Phoebus  cloudes  his 

rayes ; 
That  corp's,  that   coffin   now   besticke    those 

bayes, 
Which    crown'd   him   Poet   first,  then    Poets' 

King. 

If  Tragedies  might  any  Prologue  have, 
All  those  he  made,  would  scarce  make  one  to 

this  ; 

Where  Fame,  now  that  he  gone  is  to  the  grave 
(Death's  publique  tyring-house)  the  Nuncius  is. 
For  though  his  line  of  life  went  soon  about, 
The  life  yet  of  his  lines  shall  never  out. 

HUGH  HOLLAND. 

[Prefixed  to  the  first  folio  edition  of  Shake- 
speare's works,  1623.] 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  19 

TO   THE  MEMORIE  OF  THE  DECEASED 

AUTHOUR   MAISTER  W. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Shake-speare,    at    length    thy  pious    followes 

give 
The  world  thy  Workes  ;  thy  Workes,  by  which, 

outlive 
Thy  Tombe  thy  name  must ;  when  that  stone 

is  rent, 
And    Time    dissolves     thy    Stratford    Moni- 

ment, 
Here  we   alive   shall   view   thee    still.     This 

Booke, 
When   Brasse  and   Marble   fade,   shall  make 

thee  looke 

Fresh  to  all  Ages  :  when  Posterite 
Shall  loath  what's  new,  thinke  all  is  prodigie 
That  is  not  Shake-speare's :   ev'ry  Line,  each 

Verse 
Here    shall   revive,    redeeme    thee    from    thy 

Herse. 


20  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Nor  Fire,  nor  cankring  Age,  as  Naso  said, 
Of  his,  thy  wit-fraught  Booke  shall  once  in- 
vade. 

Nor  shall  I  e're  beleeve,  or  thinke  thee  dead 
(Though  mist)  untill  our  bankrout  Stage  be 

sped 

(Impossible)  with  some  new  straine  t'  out-do 
Passions  of  Juliet  and  her  Romeo ; 
Or  till  I  heare  a  Scene  more  nobly  take, 
Then  when  thy  half-Sword  parlying  Romans 

spake. 

Till  these,  till  any  of  thy  Volumes  rest 
Shall  with  more  fire,  more  feeling  be  exprest, 
Be  sure,  our  Shake-speare,  thou  canst  never 

dye, 
But  crown'd  with  Lawrell,  live  eternally. 

L.  DIGGES. 

[Prolegomena  to  the  folio  of  1623.] 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  21 


TO  THE   MEMORIE   OF   M.  W.  SHAKE- 
SPEARE. 

Wee  wondred  (Shake-speare)  that  thou  went'st 

so  soone, 
From   the  Worlds- Stage,  to   the   Graves-Tyr- 

ing-roome. 
Wee  thought  thee  dead,  but  this  thy  printed 

worth, 

Tels  thy  Spectators,  that  thou  went'st  but  forth 
To  enter  with  applause.     An  Actor's  Art, 
Can  dye,  and  live  to  acte  a  second  part. 
That's  but  an  Exit  of  Mortalitie; 
This,  a  Re-entrance  to  a  Plaudite. 

I.  M.  (1623). 

[Prolegomena  to  the  first  folio  of  1623.  The 
lines  have  been  attributed  to  John  Marston,  Jas- 
per Mayne,  and  James  Mabbe.] 


22  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

EPITAPH   UPON   MR.  WILLIAM  SHAKE- 
SPEARE. 
Loord  Shakespeare  lyes  whom  none  but  death 

could  shake 

And  heere  shall  ly  till  judgement  all  awake, 
When  the  last  trumpet  doth  unclose  his  eyes 
The  wittiest  poet  in  the  world  shall  rise. 

[This  epitaph,  together  with  slightly  altered  ver- 
sions of  the  two  inscriptions  on  the  tablets  over 
the  grave  and  under  the  bust,  was  on  a  fly-leaf 
at  the  end  of  a  copy  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  first 
folio  edition  of  1623,  and  written  in  a  handwrit- 
ing of  the  time.  The  book  was  offered  for  sale 
by  the  Messrs.  Christie,  in  England,  in  1888.] 

SHAKESPEARE. 
Shakespeare  thou  hadst  as  smooth  a  Comicke 

vaine, 

Fitting  the  socke,  and  in  thy  natural  braine, 
As  strong  conception,  and  as  Cleere  a  rage, 
As  any  one  that  trafiqu'd  with  the  stage. 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON  (1627). 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  23 

[From  "  Elegies   appended  to   the   Battle   of 
Agincourt."     1627.] 


ON    WORTHY    MASTER    SHAKESPEARE 
AND   HIS   POEMS. 

A  mind  reflecting  ages  past,  whose  cleere 
And  equall  surface  can  make  things  appeare 
Distant  a  Thousand  years,  and  represent 
Them  in  their  lively  colours,  just  extent. 
To  outrun  hasty  time,  retrieve  the  fates, 
Rowle  backe  the  heavens,  blow  ope  the  iron 

gates 

Of  death  and  Lethe,  where  (confused)  lye 
Great  heapes  of  ruinous  mortalitie 
In  that  deepe  duskie  dungeon  to  discerne 
A  royall  Ghost  from  Churles  :  By  Art  to  learne 
The  Physiognomie  of  shades,  and  give 
Them  suddaine  birth,  wondring  how  oft  they 

live. 

What  story  coldly  tells,  what  Poets  faine 
At  second  hand,  and  picture  without  braine 


24  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Senseless  and  souleless  showes.     To  give  a 

Stage 

(Ample  and  true  with  life)  voyce,  action,  age, 
As  Plato's  yeare  and  new  Scene  of  the  world 
Them  unto  us,  or  us  to  them  had  hurld. 
To  raise  our  auncient  Soveraignes  from  their 

herse, 
Make    Kings    his    subjects,    by    exchanging 

Verse 

Enlive  their  pale  trunkes,  that  the  present  age 
Joys  in  their  joy,  and  trembles  at  their  rage : 
Yet  so  to  temper  passion,  that  our  eares 
Take  pleasure   in  their  paine ;   And  eyes  in 

teares 
Both  weepe  and  smile ;   fearefull  at  plots  so 

sad, 

Then  laughing  at  our  feare ;  abus'd,  and  glad 
To  be  abus'd,  affected  with  that  truth 
Which  we  perceive  is  false  ;    pleas'd  in  that 

ruth 

At  which  we  start ;  and  by  elaborate  play 
Tortur'd  and  tickled ;  by  a  crab-like  way, 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  25 

Time  past  iflade  pastime,  and  in  ugly  sort 

Disgorging  up  his  ravaine  for  our  sport 

— while  the  Plebeian  Impe  from  lofty  throne, 
Creates  and  rules  a  world,  and  workes  upon 
Mankind  by  secret  engines ;  Now  to  move 
A  chilling  pitty,  then  a  rigorous  love ; 
To  strike  up  and  stroake  down,  both  joy  and 

ire, 
To  steere  th'  affections  ;  and  by  heavenly  fire 

Mould  us  anew.     Stolne  from  ourselves 

This  and  much  more  which  cannot  bee  ex- 

prest, 
But   by    himself,    his    tongue    and    his    owne 

brest, 

Was    Shakespeare's  freehold,  which   his   cun- 
ning braine 

Improv'd  by  favour  of  the  nine  fold  traine. 
The  buskind  Muse,  the  Commicke  Queene,  the 

graund 

And  lowder  tone  of  Clio ;  nimble  hand, 
And  nimbler  foote  of  the  melodious  paire, 
The  Silver  voyced  Lady  ;  the  most  faire 


26  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Calliope,  whose  speaking  silence  daunts. 
And    she   whose    prayse    the    heavenly  body 

chants. 

These  joyntly  woo'd  him,  envying  one  an- 
other 

(Obey'd  by  all  as  Spouse,  but  lov'd  as  brother) 
And  wrought  a  curious  robe  of  sable  grave 
Fresh  greene,  and  pleasant  yellow,  red  most 

brave, 
And    constant    blew,    rich    purple,    guiltless 

white, 

The  lowly  Russet,  and  the  Scarlet  bright; 
Branch'd    and   embroydred   like   the   painted 

Spring 
Each  leafe  match'd  with  a  flower,  and  each 

string 
Of   golden    wire,    each    line    of    silke ;    there 

run 

Italian  workes  whose  thred  the  Sisters  spun ; 
And   there   did   sing,  or   seeme   to   sing,  the 

choyce 
Birdes  of  a  forraine  note  and  various  voyce. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  27 

Here  hangs   a  mossey  rocke ;    there  plays  a 
faire 

But  chiding  foimtaine  purled :  Not  the  ayre 

Nor    cloudes    nor    thunder,    but   were    living 
drawne 

Not  out  of  common  Tiffany  or  Lawne. 

But  fine  materialls,  which  the  Muses  know 

And    onely   know   the    countries   where   they 

grow. 

Now,  when   they  could  no  longer  him  en- 
joy 

In    mortall    garments    pent ;    death   may   de- 
stroy 

They  say  his  body,  but  his  verse  shall  live 

And  more  than  nature  takes,  our  hands  shall 
give. 

In  a  lesse  volumne,  but  more  strongly  bound 

Shakespeare   shall  breathe  and  speake,  with 
Laurell  crown'd 

Which    never    fades.      Fed   with    Ambrosian 
meate 

In  a  well-lyned  vesture  rich  and  neate. 


28  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

So  with  this  robe  they  cloath  him,  bid  him 

weare  it 
For  time  shall  never  staine,  nor  envy  teare  it. 

The  friendly  admirer  of  his  Endowments. 

I.  M.  S.  (1632). 

[Shakespearian  editors  and  scholars  have  usual- 
ly treated  the  letters  I.  M.  S.  as  the  initials  of 
the  author's  name,  and  many  have  been  the  con- 
jectures in  regard  to  the  identity  of  the  "  friend- 
ly admirer."  The  poem  has  been  attributed  to 
Jasper  Mayne  (Student),  John  Marston  (Student, 
or  Satirist),  John  Milton  (Senior,  or  Student), 
John  Chapman,  and  Dr.  John  Donne ;  and  each 
has  had  able  advocates  to  support  his  claims. 
Dr.  Clement  M.  Ingleby  advanced  a  most  plausi- 
ble theory :  that  the  letters  I.  M.  S.  signify  "  In 
Memoriam  Scriptoris  (decessi) ;"  and  that  this 
fine  poem,  prefixed  to  the  second  folio  (1632),  is 
a  kind  of  rival  to  Ben  Jonson's,  which  adorned 
the  first  folio  (1623),  and  which  Jonson  declared 
to  be  "  In  Memory  of  the  (deceased)  Author," 
etc.  In  Dr.  Ingleby 's  opinion,  the  author  was  a 
very  great  poet,  a  distinguished  rival  of  Shake- 
speare's, who  bore  him  no  envy.] 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  29 

UPON   THE   EFFIGIES   OF   MY  WORTHY 

FRIEND,  THE  AUTHOR, 

MASTER  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE, 

AND   HIS  WORKES. 

Spectator,  this  Life's  shaddow  is ;  To  see 

The  truer  image  and  a  livelier  he 

Turne    Reader.     But,    observe    his    Comicke 
vaine, 

Laugh,    and    proceed    next    to    a    Tragicke 
straine, 

Then  weepe ;    So  when  thou  find'st  two  con- 
traries, 

Two    different    passions   from   thy  rapt   soul 
rise, 

Say,  (who  alone  effect  such  wonders  could) 

Rare  Shake-speare  to  the  life  thou  dost  be- 
hold. 

(Anonymous.) 

[Prefixed  to  the  second  folio  edition,  1632.] 


30  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

AN   EPITAPH   ON   THE  ADMIRABLE 

DRAMATICKE  POET,   W. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

What  neede  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honour'd 

bones, 

The  labour  of  an  Age,  in  piled  stones  ? 
Or  that  his  hallow'd  Reliques  should  be  hid 
Under  a  starre-y-pointing  Pyramid  ? 
Deare    Sonne    of    Memory,    great    Heire    of 

Fame, 
What  needst  thou  such  dull  witnesse  of  thy 

Name  ? 

Thou,  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment, 
Hast  built  thy  selfe  a  lasting  Monument : 
For  whil'st  to  th'  shame  of  slow-endevouring 

Art 

Thy  easie  numbers  flow,  and  that  each  heart 
Hath,    from    the     leaves     of    thy    unvalued 

Booke, 

Those  Delphicke   Lines  with   deepe   Impres- 
sion tooke; 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  31 

Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  her  selfe  bereaving, 
Dost  make  us  Marble,  with  too   much   con- 
ceiving ; 

And  so  sepulcher'd,  in  such  pompe  dost  lie, 
That  kings,  for  a  such  a  Tombe,  would  wish  to 

die. 

JOHN  MILTON. 

[This  epitaph  of  sixteen  lines  was  prefixed  to 
the  second  Shakespeare  folio  (1632),  according 
to  a  custom  then  prevailing.  It  was  printed 
anonymously,  and  is  our  first  specimen  of  Mil- 
ton's poetry;  and  was  written  by  him  in  1630,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-two.] 


EXTRACT   FROM   "THE   HIERARCHIE 
OF  THE   BLESSED   ANGELLS." 

Our  moderne  Poets  to  that  passe  are  driven, 
Those  names  are  curtal'd  which  they  first  had 

given ; 
And,    as   we   wisht    to    have   their   memories 

drown'd, 
We  scarcely  can  afford  them  halfe  their  sound. 


32  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Greene,  who  had  in  both  Academies  t'ane 
Degree  of  Master,  yet  could  never  gaine 
To  be  calPd  more  than  Robin  ;  who  had  he 
Profest  aught  save  the  Muse,  Serv'd,  and  been 

Free 
After    a    seven    yeares    Prentiseship ;    might 

have 

(With  credit  too)  gone  Robert  to  his  grave. 
Mario,  renown'd  for  his  rare  art  and  wit, 
Could  ne're  attaine  beyond  the  name  of  Kit ; 
Although  his  Hero  and  Leander  did 
Merit  addition  rather.     Famous  Kid 
Was  call'd  but  Tom,     Tom  Watson,  though  he 

wrote 

Able  to  make  Apollo's  selfe  to  dote 
Upon  his  Muse ;  for  all  that  he  could  strive, 
Yet  never  could  to  his  full  name  arrive. 
Tom  Nash  (in  his  time  of  no  small  esteeme) 
Could  not  a  second  syllable  redeeme. 
Excellent  Bewmont,  in  the  foremost  ranke 
Of   the    rar'st   Wits,    was    never    more    than 

Franck. 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  33 

Mellifluous     Shakespeare,    whose    inchanting 

Quill 

Commanded  Mirth  or  Passion,  was  but  Will. 
And    famous    Jonson,    though     his    learned 

Pen 

Be  dipt  in  Castaly,  is  still  but  Ben. 
Fletcher  and  Webster,  of  that  learned  packe 
None    of   the   mean'st,    yet   neither   was    but 

Jacke. 

Deckers  but  Tom ;  nor  May,  nor  Middleton. 
And  hee's  now  but  Jacke  Foord,  that  once  was 

John. 

THOMAS  HEYWOOD  (1635). 


IN   REMEMBRANCE   OF 
MASTER  WILLIAM   SHAKESPERE. 

ODE. 

i. 
Beware  (delighted  poets  !)  when  you  sing, 

To  welcome  Nature  in  the  early  Spring ; 
3 


34  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Your  numerous  feet  not  tread 
The  banks  of  Avon  ;  for  each  flowre 
(As  it  nere  knew  a  Sun  or  showre) 

Hangs  there,  the  pensive  head. 

n. 
Each  tree,  whose  thick  and  spreading  growth 

hath  made, 
Rather    a   night    beneath    the    boughs    than 

shade, 

(Unwilling  now  to  grow,) 
Looks  like  the  plume  a  captain  weares, 
Whose  rifled  falls  are  steep't  i'  th'  teares 
Which  from  his  last  rage  flow. 

in. 

The  pitious  river  wept  it  self  away, 
Long  since  (alas !)  to  such  a  swift  decay, 

That  reach  the  map,  and  look 
If  you  a  river  there  can  spie  : 
And  for  a  river  your  mock'd  eye 
Will  finde  a  shallow  brooke. 

SIR  WILLIAM  DAVENANT  (1638). 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  35 

[Sir  William  Davenant  (1605-1668),  Shake- 
speare's reputed  godson,  claims  our  grateful  ac- 
knowledgment for  his  untiring  efforts  to  restore 
Shakespeare  to  the  English  stage.  While  not  a 
great  poet,  this  dirge  on  Shakespeare,  says  Prof. 
Saintsbury,  "is  of  the  best  stamp  of  the  older 
school."  He  succeeded  Ben  Jonson  as  poet- 
laureate  in  1637,  and  was  knighted  by  Charles 
I.  in  1643.  His  career  was  a  most  romantic 
one.] 

EXTRACT  FROM  "JONSONUS  VIRBIUS." 

So  in  our  Halcyon  dayes,  we  have  had  now 
Wits,   to    which,    all   that    after    come,    must 

bow. 
And   should   the   Stage   compose   her   self  a 

Crowne 

Of  all  those  wits,  which  hitherto  sh'as  knowne ; 
Though  there  be  many  that  about  her  brow 
Like  sparkling  stones,  might   a   quick   lustre 

throw ; 
Yet    Shakespeare,    Beaumont,   Jonson,   these 

three  shall 
Make  up  the  Jem  in  the  point  verticall. 


36  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

And  now   since  Jonsons  gone,  we  well  may 

say, 

The  Stage  hath  seene  her  glory  and  decay. 
OWEN  FELTHAM  (1638). 

["  Jonsonus  Virbius"  (Jonson  Revived) — a  col- 
lection of  verses  in  praise  of  Ben  Jonson,  pub- 
lished the  year  after  his  death.] 


TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Thy  Muses  sugred  dainties  seeme  to  us 
Like  the  fam'd  Apples  of  old  Tantalus : 
For  we  (admiring)  see  and  heare  thy  straines, 
But  none  I  see  or  heare,  those  sweets  attaines. 


TO  THE   SAME. 

Thou   hast   so   us'd   thy  Pen  (or  shooke  thy 

Spear  e) 

That  Poets  startle,  nor  thy  wit  come  neare. 
THOMAS  BANCROFT  (1639). 

[From     "  Two    Bookes    of    Epigrammes    and 
Epitaphs"  (1639).     "Shooke  thy  Speare  "  is  an 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  37 

allusion  to  Shakespeare's  crest,  which  was  a  fal- 
con supporting  a  spear.] 


TO    MR.  WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE. 
Shakespeare,  we  must  be  silent  in  thy  praise, 
'Cause  our  encomion's  will  but  blast  thy  Bayes, 
Which  envy  could  not,  that  thou  didst  so  well; 
Let  thine  own  histories  prove  thy  Chronicle. 
(Anonymous,  1640.) 

["Witts  Recreations  Selected  from  the  finest 
Fancies  of  Moderne  Muses.  With  a  Thousand 
outlandish  Proverbs."  Epigram  25.] 


UPON 
MASTER  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE, 

THE    DECEASED    AUTHOUR,   AND    HIS    POEMS. 

Poets  are  borne  not  made,  when  I  would  prove 
This  truth,  the  glad  rememberance  I  must  love 
Of  never  dying  Shakespeare,  who  alone, 
Is  argument  enough  to  make  that  one. 
First,  that  he  was  a  Poet  none  would  doubt 
That  heard  th'  applause  of  what  he  sees  set  out 


38  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Imprinted ;  where  thou  hast  (I  will  not  say 
Reader  his  Workes,  for  to  contrive  a  Play  ; 
For  him  twas  none)  the  patterne  of  all  wit, 
Art  without  Art  unparaleld  as  yet. 
Next  Nature  onely  heipt  him,  for  looke  thorow 
This   whole  Booke,  thou   shalt  find  he   doth 

not  borrow, 

One  phrase  from  Greekes,  nor  Latines  imitate 
Nor  once  from  vulgar  Languages  Translate, 
Nor  Plagiari-like  from  others  gleane, 
Nor  begges  he  from  each  witty  friend  a  Scene 
To  piece  his  Acts  with,  all  that  he  doth  write 
Is  pure  his  owne  plot,  language  exquisite, 
But  oh  !  what  praise  more  powerfull  can  we  give 
The  dead,  then  that  by  him  the  Kings  men  live, 
His    Players,   which    should    they   but    have 

shar'd  the  Fate, 

All  else  expir'd  within  the  short  Termes  date ; 
How  could  the  Globe  have  prospered,  since 

through  want 
Of  change,  the  Plaies  and  Poems  have  growne 

scant, 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  39 

But  happy  verse  thou  shalt  be  sung  and  heard, 
When  hungry  quills  shall  be  such  honour  barr'd. 
Then  vanish  upstart  Writers  to  each  Stage, 
You  need  Poetasters  of  this  Age, 
Where  Shakespeare   liv'd   or  spake,  Vermine 

forbeare, 
Least  with  your   froth   you   spot  them,  come 

not  neere ; 

But  if  you  needs  must  write,  if  poverty 
So  pinch,  that  otherwise  you  starve  and  die, 
On  Gods  name  may  the  Bull  or  Cockpit  have 
Your  lame  blancke  Verse,  to  k-eepe  you  from 

the  grave : 

Or  let  new  Fortunes  younger  brethren  see, 
What  they  can  picke  from  your  leane  industry. 
I  doe  not  wonder  when  you  offer  at 
Blacke-Friers,  that  you  suffer :  tis  the  fate 
Of  richer  veines,  prime  judgments  that  have 

far'd 

The  worse,  with  this  deceased  man  compar'd. 
So  have  I  seene,  when  Cesar  would  appeare, 
And  on  the  Stage  at  half-sword  parley  were, 


40  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Brutus  and  Cassius :  oh  how  the  Audience 
Were   ravish'd,  with  what  wonder  they  went 

thence, 
When  some  new  day  they  would  not  brooke  a 

line, 

Of  tedious  (though  well  laboured)  Catiline ; 
Sejanus  too  was  irksome,  they  priz'de  more 
Honest  lago,  or  the  jealous  Moore. 
And  though  the  Fox  and  subtill  Alchimist, 
Long  intermitted  could  not  quite  be  mist, 
Though  these  have  sham'd  all  the  Ancients, 

and  might  raise, 

Their  Authours  merit  with  a  crowne  of  Bayes. 
Yet  these  sometimes,  even  at  a  friends   de- 
sire 

Acted,  have  scarce  defrai'd  the  Seacole  fire 
And   doore-keepers :    when   let   but  Falstaffe 

come, 
Hall,  Poines,  the  rest  you  scarce  shall  have  a 

roome 

All  is  so  pester'd :  let  but  Beatrice 
And  Benedicke  be  seene,  loe  in  a  trice 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  41 

The  Cockpit  Galleries,  Boxes,  all  are  full 
To  hear  Malvoglio,  that  crosse  garter'd  Gull. 
Briefe,  there    is    nothing    in  his    wit    fraught 

Booke, 
Whose  sound  we  would  not  heare,  on  whose 

worth  looke 

Like  old  coynd  gold,  whose  lines  in  every  page, 
Shall  passe  true  currant  to  succeeding  age : 
But   why   doe    I    dead    Shakespeare's    praise 

recite, 

Some    second    Shakespeare,    must  of    Shake- 
speare write ; 

For  me  tis  needlesse,  since  an  host  of  men, 

Will  pay  to  clap  his  praise,  to  free  my  Pen. 

LEONARD  DIGGES  (1640). 

[Prefixed  to  Shakespeare's  Poems,  1640.] 


42  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

AN   ELEGY,  ON   THE  DEATH   OF  THAT 

FAMOUS   WRITER  AND    ACTOR, 

MR.  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

I  dare  not  doe  thy  Memory  that  wrong, 
Unto  our  larger  grief es  to  give  a  tongue ; 
He  onely  sigh  in  earnest,  and  let  fall 
My  solemne  teares  at  thy  great  Funerall ; 
For  every  eye  that  raines  a  showre  for  thee, 
Laments  thy  losse  in  a  sad  Elegie. 
Nor  is  it  fit  each  humble  Muse  should  have, 
Thy  worth   his   subject,  now   th'  art  laid  in 

grave ; 

No  its  a  flight  beyond  the  pitch  of  those, 
Whose  worthless  Pamphlets  are  not  sence  in 

Prose. 

Let  learned  Jonson  sing  a  Dirge  for  thee, 
And  fill  our  Orbe  with  mournefull  harmony ; 
But  we  neede  no  Remembrancer,  thy  Fame 
Shall  still  accompany  thy  honoured  Name, 
To  all  posterity ;  and  make  us  be, 
Sensible  of  what  we  lost  in  losing  thee ; 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  43 

Being  the  Ages  wonder  whose  smooth  Rhimes, 
Did  more  reforme  than  lash  the  looser  Times. 
Nature  her  selfe  did  her  owne  selfe  admire, 
As  oft  as  thou  wert  pleased  to  attire 
Her  in  her  native  lusture,  and  confesse, 
Thy  dressing  was  her  chiefest  comelinesse. 
How  can  we  then  forget  thee,  when  the  age 
Her  chiefest  Tutor,  and  the  widdowed  Stage 
Her  onely  favorite  in  thee  hath  lost, 
And  Natures  selfe,  what   she  did  bragge  of 

most. 
Sleepe  then  rich  soule  of  numbers,  whilst  poor 

we, 

Enjoy  the  profits  of  thy  Legacie ; 
And  thinke  it  happinesse  enough  we  have, 
So  much  of  thee  redeemed  from  the  grave, 
As  may  suffice  to  enlighten  future  times, 
With    the    bright    lustre    of    thy    matchlesse 

Rhimes. 

(Anonymous.) 

[Appended  to  Shakespeare's  Poems,  1640.] 


44  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

TO   SHAKESPEARE. 

See  him  whose  Tragic  scenes  Euripides 
Doth  equal,  and  with  Sophocles  we  may 
Compare  great  Shakespeare — Aristophanes 
Never  like  him,  his  Fancy  could  display ; 
Witness  the  Prince  of  Tyre,  his  Pericles, 
His  sweet  and  his  to  be  admired  lay 
He  wrote  of  lustful  Tarquins  rape,  shews  he 
Did  understand  the  depth  of  Poesie. 

SAMUEL  SHEPPARD. 

["  The  Times  Displayed  in  Six  Sestyads,"  1646.] 


ELEGIAC    VERSES   ON    SHAKESPEARE. 

In  Memory  of  our  Famous  Shakespeare. 
Sacred  Spirit,  while  thy  Lyre 

Ecchoed  o're  the  Arcadian  Plaines, 
Even  Apollo  did  admire, 

Orpheus  wondered  at  thy  straines. 

Plautus  sigh'd,  Sophocles  wept 
Teares  of  anger,  for  to  heare 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  45 

After  they  so  long  had  slept 

So  bright  a  Genius  should  appeare ; 

Who  wrote  his  Lines  with  a  Sunne-beame 
More  durable  than  Time  or  Fate, 

Others  boldly  do  blaspheme, 

Like  those  that  seeme  to  Preach,  but  prate. 

Thou  wert  truely  Priest-elect, 

Chosen  darling  to  the  Nine, 
Such  a  Trophy  to  erect 

(By  thy  wit  and  skill  Divine). 

That  were  all  their  other  Glories 

(Thine  excepted)  torn  away 
By  thy  admirable  Stories, 

Their  garments  ever  shall  be  gay. 

Where  thy  honoured  bones  do  lie 
(As  Statius  once  to  Maro's  urne) 

Thither  every  year  will  I 

Slowly  tread,  and  sadly  mourn. 

SAMUEL  SHEPPARD. 

[The  preceding  verses  are  in  an  exceedingly 
rare   volume    entitled    "Epigrams,   Theological, 


46  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Philosophical,  and  Romantick,  Six  Bookes ;  with 
some  Select  Poems,  by  S.  Sheppard,"  printed  by 
G.  D.,  and  are  to  be  sold  by  Thomas  Bucknall, 
at  the  Golden  Lion,  in  Duck  Lane,  1651 ;  these 
verses  are  on  page  150.     In  the  Third  Pastoral, 
at  p.  249,  he  again  speaks  of  Shakespeare,  after 
a  eulogy  on  Ben  Jonson,  thus  : 
"  With  him  contemporary  then 
(As  Naso,  and  fam'd  Maro,  when 
Our  sole  Redeemer  took  his  birth) 
Shakespeare  trod  on  English  earth, 
His  Muse  doth  merit  more  rewards 
Than  all  the  Greek,  or  Latine  Bards, 
What  flow'd  from  him  was  purely  rare, 
As  born  to  blesse  the  Theater, 
He  first  refin'd  the  Commick  Lyre 
His  wit  all  do,  and  shall  admire 
The  chiefest  glory  of  the  Stage, 
Or  when  he  sung  of  War  and  strage 
Melpomene  soon  viewed  the  Globe, 
Invelop'd  in  her  sanguine  Robe, 
He  that  his  worth  would  truely  sing, 
Must  quaffe  the  whole  Pierian  spring." 

In  this  rare  book  Spenser,  Sidney,  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  and  Suckling  are  mentioned  in  the 
Third  Pastoral.  The  twenty-eighth  epigram  in 
the  Fourth  Book  is  in  high  praise  of  Edmund 
Spenser.] 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  47 

TO 

MR.  CLEMENT  FISHER  OF  WINCOTT. 

Shakespeare  your  Wincot  Ale  hath  much  re- 

nownd, 

That  fox'd  a  Beggar  so  (by  chance  was  found 
Sleeping)  that  there  needed  not  many  a  word 
To  make  him  to  believe  he  was  a  Lord : 
But  you  affirm  (and  in  it  seem  most  eager) 
'Twill  make  a  Lord  as  drunk  as  any  Beggar. 
Bid  Norton  brew   such  Ale   as  Shakespeare 

fancies 

Did  put  Kit  Sly  into  such  Lordly  trances  : 
And  let  us  meet  there  (for  a  fit  of  Gladness) 
And  drink  ourselves  merry  in  sober  sadness. 

SIR  ASTON  COKAINE. 
("  Small  Poems  of  Divers  Sorts,"  1658.) 

[Cokaine's  allusion,  of  course,  is  to  Shake- 
speare's "  Taming  of  the  Shrew ;"  and  for  Kit 
Sly's  reference  to  Wincot  and  its  famous  ale,  see 
"  Induction — Taming  of  the  Shrew,"  scene  ii., 
lines  16-23,  Rolfe's  edition.] 


48  TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

As,  when  a  tree's  cut  down,  the  secret  root 
Lives  under  ground,  and  thence  new  branches 

shoot ; 
So,  from  old  Shakespeare's  honoured  dust,  this 

day 

Springs  up  and  buds  a  new  reviving  play. 
Shakespeare,  who   (taught  by  none)  did  first 

impart 

To  Fletcher  wit,  to  laboring  Jonson  art, 
He,  monarch-like,   gave  those,   his    subjects, 

law; 

And  is  that  Nature  that  they  paint  and  draw. 
Fletcher  reached  that  which  on  his  heights  did 

grow, 

While  Jonson  crept,  and  gathered  all  below. 
This  did  his  love,  and  this  his  mirth  digest ; 
One  imitates  him  most,  the  other  best. 
If  they  have  since  out-writ  all  other  men, 
'Tis  with  the  drops  that  fall  from  Shakespeare's 

pen. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  49 

The  storm  which  vanish'd  on  the  neighb'ring 

shore, 
Was  taught  by  Shakespeare's  Tempest  first  to 

roar. 

That  innocence  and  beauty,  which  did  smile 
In  Fletcher,  grew  on  this  enchanted  isle. 
But  Shakespeare's  magic  could  not  copied  be ; 
Within  that  circle,  none  durst  walk  but  he. 
I  must  confess  'twas  bold,  nor  would  you  now 
That  liberty  to  vulgar  wits  allow, 
Which  works  by  magic  supernatural  things ; 
But  Shakespeare's  power  is  sacred  as  a  king's. 
Those  legends  from  old  priesthood  were  re- 

ceiv'd, 
And  he  then  writ,  as  people  then  believ'd. 

JOHN  DRYDEN. 

(Prologue  to  "The  Tempest,  or  The  Enchanted 
Island,"  1669.) 

[The  plays  of  Shakespeare  could  not  please 
the  corrupt  taste  of  the  time  of  Charles  II.,  and 
had  to  be  remodelled  by  such  men  as  Dryden, 
Davenant,  Tate,  Ravenscroft,  and  others.  "  The 
Tempest "  was  chosen  for  the  first  Shakespearian 
4 


50  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

revival,  having  been  altered  by  Davenant  and 
Dryden ;  and  this  is  Dryden's  prologue  to  it.] 


SHAKESPEARE. 
In  country  beauties  as  we  often  see 
Something  that  takes  in  their  simplicity, 
Yet  while  they  charm  they  know  not  they  are 

fair, 
And    take    without    their    spreading    of    the 

snare — 

Such  artless  beauty  lies  in  Shakespear's  wit ; 
'Twas  well  in  spite  of  him  whate'er  he  writ. 
His  excellencies  came,  and  were  not  sought, 
His  words  like  casual  atoms  made  a  thought ; 
Drew  up  themselves  in  rank  and  file,  and  writ, 
He  wondering  how  the   devil   it  were,  such 

wit. 

Thus,  like  the  drunken  tinker  in  his  play, 
He  grew  a  prince,  and  never  knew  which  way. 
He  did  not  know  what  trope  or  figure  meant, 
But  to  persuade  is  to  be  eloquent ; 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  51 

So  in  this  Caesar  which  this  day  you  see, 
Tully  ne'er  spoke  as  he  makes  Anthony. 
Those  then  that  tax  his  learning  are  to 

blame, 
He  knew  the  thing,   but   did   not  know   its 

name; 

Great  Jonson  did  that  ignorance  adore, 
And   though   he   envied   much,   admir'd   him 

more. 

The  faultless  Jonson  equally  writ  well ; 
Shakespear  made  faults — but  then  did  more 

excel. 

One  close  at  guard  like  some  old  fencer  lay, 
T'other    more    open,    but    he    shew'd    more 

play. 

In  imitation  Jonson's  wit  was  shown, 
Heaven  made  his  men,  but  Shakespear  made 

his  own. 

Wise  Jonson's  talent  in  observing  lay, 
But  others'  follies  still  made  up  his  play. 
He  drew  the  like  in  each  elaborate  line, 
But  Shakespear  like  a  master  did  design. 


52  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Jonson  with  skill  dissected  human  kind, 

And  shew'd  their  faults,  that  they  their  faults 

might  find ; 

But  then  as  all  anatomists  must  do, 
He  to  the  meanest  of  mankind  did  go, 
And   took  from   gibbets    such    as    he    would 

show. 

Both  are  so  great,  that  he  must  boldly  dare 
Who  both  of  them  does  judge,  and  both  com- 
pare; 

If  amongst  poets  one  more  bold  there  be, 
The  man  that  dare  attempt  in  either  way,  is 

he. 

JOHN  DRYDEN. 

[Prologue  to  "  Julius  Csesar,"  by  John  Dryden 
and  Sir  William  D'Avenant — "Covent  Garden 
drolery."  1672.] 


SHAKESPEARE. 

When    Shakespeare,   Jonson,    Fletcher,   ruled 

the  stage, 
They  took  so  bold  a  freedom  with  the  age, 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  53 

That  there  was  scarce  a  knave  or  fool  in  town 
Of  any  note,  but  had  his  portrait  shown. 

SIR  CARR  SCROPE. 

["  In  Defense  of  Satyr."  (Quoted  by  the  Earl 
of  Rochester  in  "  An  Allusion  to  the  Tenth  Satyr 
of  the  First  Book  of  Horace,"  1678.)  Sir  Carr 
Scrope  was  the  last  baronet  of  the  name,  and 
author  of  translations  from  Ovid  and  Horace.] 


SHAKESPEARE. 
See   my  lov'd  Britons,  see  your   Shakespeare 

rise, 

An  awful  ghost  confessed  to  human  eyes ! 
Unnam'd,  methinks,  distinguish^  I  had  been 
From  other  shades,  by  this  eternal  green, 
Above  whose  wreaths  the  vulgar  poets  strive, 
And  with    a   touch    their   wither'd    bays    re- 
vive. 

Untaught,  unpractis'd,  in  a  barbarous  age, 
I  found  not,  but  created  first,  the  stage. 
And  if  I  drain'd  no  Greek  or  Latin  store, 
'Twas  that  my  own  abundance  gave  me  more. 


54  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

On  foreign  trade  I  needed  not  rely, 
Like  fruitful  Britain,  rich  without  supply. 
In  this  my  rough-drawn  play  you  shall  behold 
Some  master-strokes,  so  manly  and  so  bold, 
That  he,  who  meant  to  alter,  found  'em  such, 
He  shook ;  and  thought  it  sacrilege  to  touch. 
Now,  where  are  the  successors  to  my  name  ? 
What  bring  they  to  fill  out  a  poet's  fame  ? 
Weak,  short-liv'd  issues  of  a  feeble  age ; 
Scarce  living  to  be  christen'd  on  the  stage. 

JOHN  DRYDEN. 

[Prologue  to  "Troilus  and  Cressida  or  Truth 
found  too  late,"  by  John  Dryden,  1679.  Spoken 
by  Betterton  as  the  Ghost  of  Shakespeare.] 


SHAKESPEARE. 
Our   Shakespeare   wrote,    too,   in   an   age   as 

blest, 

The  happiest  poet  of  his  time,  and  best ; 
A  gracious  prince's  favour  cheer'd  his  muse, 
A  constant  favour  he  ne'er  feared  to  lose, 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  55 

Therefore  he  wrote  with  fancy  unconfm'd, 
And  thoughts  that  were  immortal  as  his  mind. 
And  from  the  crop  of  his  luxuriant  pen 
E'er  since  succeeding  poets  humbly  glean. 
Though    much    the    most    unworthy    of    the 

throng, 

Our  this  day's  poet  fears  he's  done  him  wrong. 
Like  greedy  beggars  that  steal  sheaves  away, 
You'll  find  he's  rifled  him  of  half  a  play. 
Amidst  his  baser  dross  you'll  see  it  shine 
Most  beautiful,  amazing,  and  divine. 
Whilst  we    both  wit's   and    Caesar's   absence 

mourn 

Oh  !  when  will  he  and  poetry  return  ? 
When  shall  we  there  again  behold  him  sit, 
Midst  shining  boxes  and  a  courtly  pit, 
The  lord  of  hearts  and  president  of  wit  ? 

THOMAS  OTWAY. 

[Prologue  to   "Caius   Mafius''  (altered  from 
"  Romeo  and  Juliet "),  1680.] 


56  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

TO   SHAKESPEARE. 

To    day   we    bring   old   gather'd    Herbs,    'tis 

true, 
But   such   as    in    sweet    Shakspear's    Garden 

grew. 

And  all  his  Plants'  immortal  you  esteem, 
Your   Mouthes   are   never   out   of  taste  with 

him. 

How're  to  make  your  Appetites  more  keen, 
Not  only  oily  words  are  sprinkled  in ; 
But  what  to  please  you  gives  us  better  hope, 
A  little  Vineger  against  the  Pope. 


For  by  his  feeble  Skill  'tis  built  alone, 

The    Divine    Shakespeare    did    not    lay   one 

stone. 

J.  CROWN. 

[Prologues  to  "  Henry  the  Sixth,"  by  J.  Crown, 
Parts  I.  and  II.,  1681.  Crown  was  the  author 
of  many  successful  plays,  and  was  in  great  favor 
at  the  court  of  Charles  II.] 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  57 


SHAKESPEARE. 

Plato  and  Lucian  are  the  best  Remains 
Of  all  the  wonders  which  this  art  contains; 
Yet  to  ourselves  we  Justice  must  allow, 
Shakespear    and    Fletcher    are    the    wonders 

now; 

Consider  them,  and  read  them  o're  and  o're, 
Go  see  them  play'd,  then  read  them  as  be- 
fore. 

For  though  in  many  things  they  grossly  fail, 
Over  our  Passions  still  they  so  prevail, 
That  our  own  grief  by  theirs  is  rockt  asleep, 
The  dull  are  forced  to  feel,  the  wise  to  weep. 
Their  Beauties  Imitate,  avoid  their  faults.  .  .  . 

JOHN  SHEFFIELD, 

Earl  of  Musgrave. 

[Extract  from  "An  Essay  upon  Poetry,"  1682.] 


58  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

He  hopes  since  in  rich  Shakespeare's  soil  it 
grew 

'Twill  relish  yet,  with  those  whose  tastes  are 
true, 

And  his  Ambition  is  to  please  a  Few. 

If  then  this  Heap  of  Flow'rs  shall  chance  to 
wear 

Fresh  beauty  in  the  Order  they  now  bear, 

E'en  this  is  Shakespeare's  praise ;  each  rus- 
tick  knows 

'Mongst  plenteous  Flow'rs  a  Garland  to  Com- 
pose 

Which  strung  by  this  Coarse  Hand  may  fairer 
show, 

But   'twas    a    Power   Divine    first   made   'em 

grow. 

NAHUM  TATE. 

[Prologue  to  the  "  History  of  King  Lear,"  by 
Nahum  Tate,  1689.] 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  59 

SHAKESPEARE. 

How's  this,  you  cry  ?  an  actor  write  ?  we  know 

it; 

But  Shakespeare  was  an  actor  and  a  poet. 
Has  not  great  Jonson's  learning  often  fail'd  ? 
While  Shakespeare's  greater  genius  still  pre- 

vail'd. 

JOHN  DRYDEN. 

[Prologue  to  "The  Mistakes,"  by  Joseph  Har- 
ris, 1690.] 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Shakespeare,    thy    gift,    I    place    before    my 

sight ; 

With  awe  I  ask  his  blessing  ere  I  write ; 
With  reverence  look  on  his  majestic  face, 
Proud  to  be  less,  but  of  his  godlike  race. 
His    soul    inspires    me,    while    thy    praise   I 

write, 
And  I,  like  Teucer  under  Ajax,  fight ; 


60  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Bids  thee,  through  me,  be  bold  ;  with  dauntless 

breast 

Contemn  the  bad  and  emulate  the  best 
Like    his,    thy    critics    in    th'    attempt    are 

lost, 
When  most  they  rail,  know  then,  they  envy 

most. 

JOHN  DRYDEN. 

("  Epistle  to  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller,"  1693.) 

[On  the  death  of  Sir  William  Davenant,  the 
Chandos  portrait  of  Shakespeare,  which  he 
owned,  was  sold  to  Betterton,  the  actor,  and 
while  in  his  possession  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller 
made  a  copy  of  it,  which  he  presented  to  Dry- 
den.  In  return,  Dryden  sent  the  great  painter 
these  verses.] 


SHAKESPEARE'S   MULBERRY  TREE. 

Behold  this  fair  goblet !     'Twas  carved  from 

the  tree 
Which,  O  my  sweet  Shakespeare,  was  planted 

by  thee ! 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  6 1 

As    a    relic    I    kiss    it,     and    bow    at    thy 

shrine, 
What   comes   from    thy   hand   must   be    ever 

divine. 

All  shall  yield  to  the  mulberry  tree, 
Bend  to  thee,  blest  mulberry ; 
Matchless  was  he  who  planted  thee, 
And  thou,  like  him,  immortal  shalt  be. 

Ye    trees    of    the    forest    so    rampant    and 

high, 
Who  spread  wide  your  branches,  whose  heads 

sweep  the  sky, 
Ye  curious  exotics,  whom  taste  has  brought 

here, 

To  root  out  the  natives,  at  prices  so  dear. 
All  shall  yield  to  the  mulberry  tree,  etc. 

The    oak    so    held    royal    is    Britain's    great 

boast, 
Preserved  once  our  king,  and  will  always  our 

coast, 


62  TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE. 

But  of  fir  we  make  ships,  we  have  thousands 

that  fight, 
While  one,  only  one,  like  our  Shakespeare  can 

write. 
All  shall  yield  to  the  mulberry  tree,  etc. 

Let  Venus  delight  in  gay  myrtle  bowers, 
Pomona  in  fruit  trees,  and  Flora  in  flowers ; 
The   garden   of  Shakespeare   all   fancies  will 

suit, 
With  the  sweetest  of  flowers,  and  the  finest  of 

fruit. 
All  shall  yield  to  the  mulberry  tree,  etc. 

With  learning  and  knowledge  the  well-lettered 

birch 
Supplies   law  and  physic  and  grace  for   the 

church, 

But  law  and  the  Gospel  in  Shakespeare  we  find, 
And  he  gives  the  best  physic  for  body  and 

mind. 
All  shall  yield  to  the  mulberry  tree,  etc. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  63 

The  fame  of  the  patron  gives  fame  to  the  tree, 
From  him  and  his  merits  this  takes  a  degree ; 
Let  Phoebus  and  Bacchus  their  glories  resign, 
Our  tree   shall   surpass   both  the  laurel  and 

vine. 
All  shall  yield  to  the  mulberry  tree,  etc. 

The    genius    of    Shakespeare    outshines    one 

bright  day, 
More   rapture    than   wine   to   the    heart    can 

convey, 

So  the  tree  that  he  planted  by  making  his  own 
Has  the  laurel  and  bays  and  the  vine  all  in 

one. 
All  shall  yield  to  the  mulberry  tree,  etc. 

Then  each  take  a  relic  of  this  hallow'd  tree, 
From  folly  and  fashion  a  charm  let  it  be ; 
Fill,  fill  to  the  planter  the  cup  to  the  brim, 
To  honor  the  country,  do  honor  to  him. 
All  shall  yield  to  the  mulberry  tree,  etc. 
DAVID  GARRICK. 


64  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

[James  L,  hoping  that  in  the  raising  and  man- 
ufacture of  silk  England  might  become  indepen- 
dent of  France,  began  the  importation  of  mul- 
berry trees,  and  directed  all  persons  who  had 
means  and  facilities  to  experiment  in  their  cult- 
ure. In  1609,  Shakespeare  planted  the  mul- 
berry tree  of  which  Garrick  thus  enthusiasti- 
cally sings,  in  the  garden  of  New  Place ;  having 
brought  the  tree  from  London,  buying  it  from  a 
supply  ordered  by  the  king.  In  17 56,.  the  Rev. 
Francis  Gastrell  became  owner  of  New  Place, 
and  soon  after,  being  annoyed  by  pilgrims  who 
came  to  see  the  tree  which  Shakespeare  had 
planted  with  his  own  hands,  he  had  it  hewn 
down,  and  sold  the  wood  to  Sharpe,  the  turner. 
The  Stratford  people  were  proud  of  the  tree,  and 
were  aroused  to  open  violence  :  a  mob  collected 
before  New  Place  and  smashed  the  windows. 
Finally,  to  escape  the  payment  of  taxes  (a  house 
valued  or  leased  at  more  than  forty  shillings  a 
year  had  to  be  taxed  to  support  the  parish), 
Dr.  Gastrell  pulled  down  New  Place,  and  for 
this  crowning  act  of  vandalism  he  left  Stratford, 
"amid  the  execrations  of  its  inhabitants."  At 
the  first  Stratford  Jubilee,  in  1769,  a  goblet  made 
from  the  precious  wood  was  presented  to  Gar- 
rick  ;  it  was  filled  with  mulberry  wine,  of  which 
he  drank,  and  then  recited  these  lines,  which  he 
had  composed  for  the  occasion.  The  freedom 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  65 

of  the  Warwickshire  borough,  enclosed  in  a 
handsome  casket  made  out  of  the  trunk  of  the 
tree,  was  also  presented  to  the  great  tragedian, 
in  acknowledgment  of  his  efforts  in  behalf  of 
the  festival.] 


WARWICKSHIRE-A  SONG. 

Ye  Warwickshire  lads  and  ye  lasses, 

See  what  at  our  Jubilee  passes ; 

Come  !  revel  away ;  rejoice  and  be  glad, 

For  the  lad  of  all  lads  was   a  Warwickshire 
Lad- 
Warwickshire  Lad, 
All  be  glad ! 

For  the  lad  of  all  lads  was  a  Warwickshire  lad. 

Be  proud  of  the  charms  of  your  county, 
Where  Nature  has  lavished  her  bounty, 
Where  much  she  has  given,  and  some  to  be 

spared ; 
For  the  bard  of  all  bards  was  a  Warwickshire 

Bard, 
5 


66  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Warwickshire  Bard, 
Never  paired, 

For  the  bard  of  all  bards  was  a  Warwickshire 
Bard. 

Each  shire  has  its  different  pleasures, 

Each  shire  has  its  different  treasures ; 

But    to    rare    Warwickshire    all    must    sub- 
mit, 

For  the  wit  of  all  wits  was  a  Warwickshire 
Wit- 
Warwickshire  Wit, 
How  he  writ ! 

For  the  wit   of  all  wits  was  a  Warwickshire 
Wit. 

Old  Ben,  Thomas  Otway,  John  Dryden, 
And  half  a  score  more  we  take  pride  in, — 
Of  famous  Will  Congreve,  we  boast,  too,  the 

skill ; 
But  the  Will  of  all  Wills  was  Warwickshire 

Will, 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  67 

Warwickshire  Will, 
Matchless  still, 

For  the  Will  of  all  Wills  was  Warwickshire 
Will. 

Our  Shakespeare  compared  is  to  no  man, 
Nor  Frenchman,  nor  Grecian,  nor  Roman  -, 
Their  swans  are  all  geese  to  the  Avon's  Sweet 

Swan, 
And  the  man  of  all  men  was  a  Warwickshire 

Man. 

Warwickshire  Man, 
Avon's  Swan ! 
And  the  man  of  all  men  was  a  Warwickshire 

Man. 

As  Ven'son  is  very  inviting, 

To  steal  it  our  Bard  took  delight  in ; 

To   make    his   friends    merry   he    never  was 

lag, 
For  the  wag  of  all  wags  was  a  Warwickshire 

Wag, 


68  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Warwickshire  Wag, 
Ever  brag ! 

For  the  wag  of  all  wags  was  a  Warwickshire 
Wag. 

There  never  was  seen  such  a  creature — 

Of  all  he  was  worth  he  robbed  Nature ; 

He  took  all  her  smiles,  and  he  took  all  her 

grief, 

And  the  thief  of  all  thieves  was  a  Warwick- 
shire Thief, 

Warwickshire  Thief, 
He's  the  Chief ! 
For  the  thief  of  all  thieves  was  a  Warwickshire 

Thief. 

DAVID  GARRICK. 

[This  was  one  of  the  songs  written  by  Gar- 
rick  for  the  first  great  Stratford  Jubilee,  in  1769, 
and  was  sung  at  the  principal  banquet,  and  often 
during  the  festival,  to  music  composed  by  Arne. 
We  may  question  Garrick's  good  taste  in  refer- 
ring to  the  venison  legend,  but  cannot  omit  the 
sjtanza,  as  it  introduces  so  well  the  final  one.] 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  69 

ODE  TO  SHAKESPEARE. 

Thou,  soft-flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream, 
Of  things  more  than  mortal  sweet  Shakespeare 

would  dream, 
The   fairies    by  moonlight    dance    round   his 

green  bed, 
For  hallow'd  the   turf  is  which  pillow'd  his 

head. 

The   love  -  stricken   maiden,   the    soft -sighing 

swain, 
Here  rove  without  danger  and  sigh  without 

pain, 
The  sweet  bud  of  beauty  no  blight  shall  e'er 

dread, 
For  hallow'd   the  turf  is  which  pillow'd  his 

head. 

Here  youth  shall  be  fam'd  for  their  love  and 

their  truth, 
And  cheerful  old  age  feel  the  spirit  of  youth ; 


70  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

For  the  raptures  of  fancy  there  poets   shall 

tread, 
For  hallow'd  the   turf  is  which  pillow'd  his 

head. 

Flow  on,  silver  Avon,  in  song  ever  flow, 

Be  the  swans  on  thy  waters  whiter  than  snow, 

Ever  full  be  thy  stream,  like  his  name  may  it 

spread, 
And  the  turf  ever-hallow'd  which  pillow'd  his 

head. 

DAVID  GARRICK. 

[This  song  is  from  the  long  "  Ode  "  by  Garrick, 
on  the  occasion  of  dedicating  a  building  and 
erecting  a  statue  to  Shakespeare  at  Stratford 
during  the  Jubilee  (1769) :  it  is  the  best  of  the 
Ode.] 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  71 

SWEET   WILLY   O. 

The  pride  of  all  Nature  was  sweet  Willy  O, 

The  first  of  all  swains, 

He  gladdened  the  plains, 
None  ever  was  like  to  sweet  Willy  O. 

He  sung  it  so  rarely,  did  sweet  Willy  O, 

He  melted  each  maid, 

So  skillful  he  play'd, 
No  Shepherd  e'er  pip'd  like  the  sweet  Willy  O. 

All  Nature  obey'd  him,  this  sweet  Willy  O, 

Wherever  he  came, 

Whate'er  had  a  name, 
Whenever  he  sung  followed  sweet  Willy  O. 

He  would  be  a  soldier,*  this  sweet  Willy  O, 
When  arm'd  in  the  field 
With  sword  and  with  shield, 

The  laurel  was  won  by  the  sweet  Willy  O. 

*  "  A  soldier  " — meaning  "  writer  of  tragedy." 


72  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

He  charm'd  em  when  living,  the  sweet  Willy  O, 

And  when  Willy  dy'd, 

'Twas  Nature  that  sigh'd, 
To  part  with  her  all  in  her  sweet  W7illy  O. 

DAVID  GARRICK  (1769). 


THE  BIRTH   OF  SHAKSPEARE. 
(Air—"  Thro'  Erin's  Isle.") 

In  Bess's  days, 

(Which  glory's  rays 
Forever  shall  environ,) 

The  gods  made  men 

Much  better  then, 
Of  mingled  gold  and  iron ; 

A  nobler  race 

No  records  trace, 
To  handle  pen,  or  break  spear. 

"  To  perfect  man," 

Said  Jove's  great  clan, 
"  Suppose  we  try  a  Shakspeare  ?" 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  73 

Oh,  sweet  Shakspeare! 
Immortal  Willy  Shakspeare ! 

Ev'n  the  gods 

Allowed  it  odds, 
They  couldn't  make  a  Shakspeare. 

Cried  Phoebus,  "  Pray 

Give  me  the  clay, 
I'll  breathe  in  't  fire  poetical, 

Which  thro'  the  mass 

Shall  instant  pass 
Exhaustless  and  prophetical ;" 

Quoth  Mars,  "  Egad, 

Well  said,  dear  lad, 
Or  never  may  I  break  spear ; 

For  any  part 

I'll  inspire  his  heart ; 
But  still  we  haven't  Shakspeare  \" 

Oh,  sweet  Shakspeare,  etc. 

With  looks  that  strike, 
In  her  we  like, 


74  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Bespoke  then  gentle  Venus, — 
"  His  heart,  dear  Mars, 
My  gracious  stars ! 

We  must  have  that  between  us, 
My  darlings  all 
Have  courage  tall, 

I  can't  deny  its  meetness  ! 
But  here,  my  friend, 
I'll  with  it  blend 

E'en  female  love  and  sweetness." 
Oh,  sweet  Shakspeare,  etc. 

Then  Wisdom's  maid, 
(Of  aspect  staid, 

But  ever  fresh  and  charming,) 
Prepared  the  brain 
With  wondrous  pain 

And  energy  alarming ; 
That  so  in  debt 
None  else  should  get, 

Protesting  as  she  shut  it  in, 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  75 

Unless  he  brought 
(Preposterous  thought !) 
As  fine  a  head  to  put  it  in. 

Oh,  sweet  Shakspeare,  etc. 

The  god  of  Wit 

Imparted  it, 
To  dissipate  spleen's  tumour, 

Mnemosyne 

Gave  Memory, 
And  Momus  added  Humour ; 

Jove  shook  his  head, 

And  smiling  said, 
"  Superior  power  is  needing ; 

My  gift  tho'  last, 

Has  all  surpast, 
I've  doubled  each  preceding." 

Oh,  sweet  Shakspeare ! 
Immortal  Willy  Shakspeare ! 

Thus  the  Gods, 

In  spite  of  odds, 
Contrived  to  make  a  Shakspeare. 

J.  OGDEN. 


76  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

[From  "  Shakspere's  Garland,"  dedicated  to  the 
Shakespearian  Club  established  at  the  Falcon 
Inn,  the  ancient  resort  of  the  Bard  himself,  at 
Stratford.] 


FROM  "THE  ROSCIAD." 

May  not  some  great  extensive  genius  raise 
The  name  of  Britain  'bove  Athenian  praise ; 
And,  whilst  brave  thirst  of  fame   his  bosom 

warms, 

Make  England  great  in  letters  as  in  arms  ? 
There   may — there   hath — and    Shakespeare's 

muse  aspires 

Beyond  the  reach  of  Greece ;  with  native  fires 
Mounting  aloft,  he  wings  his  daring  flight, 
Whilst  Sophocles  below   stands  trembling   at 

his  height. 

Why  should  we  then  abroad  for  judges  roam 
When  abler  judges  we  may  find  at  home  ? 
Happy  in  tragic  and  in  comic  powers, 
Have   we   not   Shakespeare  ?    is    not   Jonson 

ours  ? 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  77 

For  them,  your  natural  judges,  Britons  vote, 
They'll  judge   like  Britons,  who  like  Britons 

wrote. 
He  said,  and  conquer'd.     Sense  resumed  her 

sway 

And  disappointed  pedants  stalk'd  away, 
Shakespeare    and   Jonson,  with  deserved    ap- 
plause, 

Joint  judges  were  ordain'd  to  try  the  cause. 

#  *  *  # 

In  the  first  seat,  in  robe  of  various  dyes, 
A  noble  wildness  flashing  from  his  eyes, 
Sat  Shakespeare; — in  one  hand  a  wand  he 

bore, 

For  mighty  wonders  famed  in  days  of  yore; 
The  other  held  a  globe,  which  to  his  will 
Obedient  turn'd,  and  own'd  the  master's  skill. 
Things  of  the  noblest  kind  his  genius  drew, 
And  look'd  through  Nature  at  a  single  view. 
A  loose  he  gave  to  his  unbounded  soul, 
And  taught  new  lands  to  rise,   new  seas   to 

roll, 


78  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Called  into  being  scenes  unknown  before, 
And  passing  nature's  bounds,  was  something 

more. 

CHARLES  CHURCHILL. 

[Charles  Churchill  wrote  the  "  Rosciad  "  (1761) 
to  satirize  the  players  of  the  time,  of  whose 
merits  he  called  Shakespeare  and  Jonson  to  be 
judges.] 


SHAKESPEARE. 

AN  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GARRICK. 

When  Shakespeare  leads  the  mind  a  dance, 
From  France  to  England,  hence  to  France, 
Talk  not  to  me  of  time  and  place ; 
I  own  I'm  happy  in  the  chase. 
Whether  the  drama's  here  or  there, 

'Tis  Nature,  Shakespeare,  everywhere. 

#  *  #  # 

Oh,  where's  the  bard,  who  at  one  view 
Could  look  the  whole  creation  through, 
Who  travers'd  all  the  human  heart, 
Without  recourse  to  Grecian  art  ? 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  79 

He  scorned  the  modes  of  imitation, 
Of  altering,  pilfering,  and  translation, 
Nor  painted  horror,  grief,  or  rage, 
From  models  of  a  former  age ; 
The  bright  original  he  took, 
And  tore  the  leaf  from  Nature's  book. 
'Tis  Shakespeare  thus,  who  stands  alone — 
But  why  repeat  what  you  have  shown  ? 
How  true,  how  perfect,  and  how  well 
The  feelings  of  our  hearts  must  tell. 

ROBERT  LLOYD. 

[In  Lloyd's  Poetical  Works  is  found  "  Shake- 
speare— An  Epistle  to  Mr.  Garrick,  with  an  Ode 
to  Genius"  (1760),  from  which  this  extract  is 
taken.]  • 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Centuries  have  rolled  on  centuries,  years  on 

years, 

The  never-ceasing  progress  of  decay 
Has  swept  the  mighty  and  the  mean  away, 

Monarchs  and  multitudes  !  but  there  appears, 


8o  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Towering  above  all  tempests  and  all  time, 
A  pyramid  more  glorious  and  sublime 
Than  those  the  imperishablexMemphis  rears 
Over  her  sandy  wilderness  ;  for  theirs 

Are  but  unspeaking  stories,  where  lies  en- 
shrined 
Eternal   silence.      But  peerless    Shakespeare 

pours 
Forth  still  from  his   exhaustless   stores  of 

mind, 
All  truth — all  passion — and  all  poetry ; 

Mounting,  with  tireless  wings,  on  every  wind, 
And  filling  earth  with  sweetest  minstrelsy. 

(Anonymous.) 

SONNET. 

(Written  at  the  tomb  of  Shakespeare,  Stratford-on-Avon.) 

A  humble  votary  of  the  tuneful  nine, 

To  Shakespeare's  tomb  a  pilgrim  I  repair, 
To  yield  the  mind's  deep  adoration  there, 

And  bow  the  knee  at  wisdom's  proudest  shrine ! 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  8 1 

Lo !  where  hath  lingered,  lost  in  wonder's  maze, 

The  ken  of  princes,  and  the  glance  of  peers — 
Lo  !  where  have  paused,  in  reverential  gaze, 

The   good   and  great  of  other   climes   and 

years — 
Bend  I,  great  shade  !  submissively  to  pay 

The  unfeigned  homage  of  one  grateful  heart, 
To  whom  thy  magic  pages  do  portray, 

The  boundless  realms  of  nature  and  of  art ! 
Allow  this  lowly  tribute  to  the  fame 
Which  shall  to  every  age  transmit  thy  honored 

name. 

(Anonymous.) 


THE -TOMB    OF    SHAKESPEARE. 

A  VISION  (1755). 

What  time  the  jocund  rosy-bosom'd  hours 
Led  forth  the  train  of  Phoebus  and  the  spring, 

And  Zephyr  mild  profusely  scatter'd  flowers 
On  earth's  green   mantle  from  his   musky 
wing; 


82  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

The  morn  unbarr'd  the  ambrosial  gates  of  light, 
Westward  the  raven-pinion'd  darkness  flew, 
The  landscape  smiled  in  vernal  beauty  bright, 
And  to  their  graves  the  sullen  ghosts  with- 
drew. 
« 

The  nightingale  no  longer  swell'd  her  throat 
With     love-lorn    plainings,    tremulous    and 
slow; 

And  on  the  wings  of  silence  ceased  to  float 
The  gurgling  notes  of  her  melodious  woe ; 

The  god  of  sleep,  mysterious  visions  led 
In  gay  procession  'fore  the  mental  eye, 

And  my  freed  soul  awhile  her  mansion  fled, 
To  try  her  plumes  for  immortality. 

Through  fields  of  air  methought  I  took  my 
flight, 

Through  every  clime,  o'er  every  region  pass'd, 
No  paradise  or  ruin  'scaped  my  sight, 

Hesperian  garden  or  Cimmerian  waste. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  83 

On  Avon's  banks  I  lit,  whose  streams  appear 
To   wind   with   eddies   fond   round    Shake- 
speare's tomb, 

The  year's  first  feathery  songsters  warble  near, 
And  violets  breathe,  and  earliest  roses  bloom. 

Here  Fancy  sat  (her  dewy  fingers  cold 

Decking  with  flowerets  fresh  the  unsullied 

sod), 
And    bathed    with   tears   the    sad    sepulchral 

mould, 
Her  favorite  offspring's  long  and  last  abode. 

"  Ah  !  what  avails  (she  cried)  a  poet's  name  ? 

Ah  !  what  avails  the  immortalizing  breath 
To  snatch  from  dumb  oblivion  others'  fame  ? 

My  darling  child  here  lies  a  prey  to  death ! 

"  Let  gentle  Otway,  white  robed  Pity's  priest, 
From  grief  domestic  teach  the  tears  to  flow ; 

Or  Southern  captivate  the  impassion'd  breast, 
With  heartfelt  sighs  and  sympathy  of  woe. 


84  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

"  For  not  to  these  his  genius  was  confined, 
Nature  and  I  each  tuneful  power  had  given, 

Poetic  transports  of  the  maddening  mind, 
And  the  wing'd  words  that  waft  the  soul  to 
heaven. 

"  The  fiery  glance  of  the  intellectual  eye, 
Piercing  all  objects  of  creation's  store, 

Which  on  this  world's  extended  surface  lie ; 
And  plastic  thought  that  still  created  more." 

"  O  grant  (with  eager  rapture  I  replied), 
Grant  me,  great  goddess  of  the  changeful 
eye! 

To  view  each  being  in  poetic  pride, 
To  whom  thy  son  gave  immortality." 

Sweet  Fancy  smiled  and  waved  her  mystic  rod, 
When  straight  these  visions  felt  her  power- 
ful arm, 

And  one  by  one  succeeded  at  her  nod, 
As  vassal  sprites  obey  the  wizard's  charm. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  85 

First  a  celestial  fornr*  (of  azure  hue, 

Whose   mantle  bound  with  bride  ethereal, 

flow'd 

To  each  soft  breeze  its  balmy  breath  that  drew) 
Swift  down  the  sunbeams  of  the  noontide 
rode. 

Obedient  to  the  necromantic  sway 
Of  an  old  sage,  to  solitude  resigned, 

With  fenny  vapours  he  obscured  the  day, 
Launch'd  the  long  lightning,  and  let  loose 
the  wind. 

He  whirl'd  the  tempest  through  the  howling  air, 
Rattled  the  dreadful  thunder  clap  on  high, 

And  raised  a  roaring  elemental  war 

Betwixt  the  sea  green  waves  and  azure  sky ; 

Then  like  Heaven's  mild  ambassador  of  love 
To  man  repentant,  bade  the  turmoil  cease ; 

Smooth'd  the  blue  bosom  of  the  realms  above, 
And  hush'd  the  rebel  elements  to  peace. 

*  Ariel,  in  "  The  Tempest." 


86  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Unlike  to  this,  in  spirit  or  in  mien, 

Another  form  *  succeeded  to  my  view ; 

A   two-legg'd    brute,  which    nature    made    in 

spleen, 
Or  from  the  loathing  womb  unfinish'd  drew. 

Scarce  could  he  syllable  the  curse  he  thought, 
Prone  were  his  eyes  to  earth,  his  mind  to 
evil, 

A  carnal  fiend  to  imperfection  wrought, 

The  mongrel  offspring  of  a  witch  and  devil. 

Next  bloom'd,  upon  an  ancient  forest's  bound, 
The  flowery  margin  f  of  a  silent  stream, 

O'erarched  by  oaks  with  ivy  mantled  round, 
And  gilt  by  silver  Cynthia's  maiden  beam. 

On  the  green  carpet  of  the  unbended  grass, 
A  dapper  train  of  female  fairies  play'd, 

And  eyed  their  gambols  in  the  watery  glass, 
That  smoothly  stole  along  the  shadowy  glade. 

*  Caliban,  in  "  The  Tempest." 

f  Fairy-land,  from  "  Midsummer-Night's  Dream." 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  87 

Through    these    the    queen,   Titania,   pass'd 
adored, 

Mounted  aloft  in  her  imperial  car, 
Journeying  to  see  great  Oberon  her  lord 

Wage  the  mock  battles  of  a  sportive  war. 

Arm'd  cap-k-pie,  forth  march'd  the  fairy  king, 
A  stouter  warrior  never  took  the  field, 

His  threatening  lance  a  hornet's  horrid  sting, 
The  sharded  beetle's  scale  his  sable  shield. 

Around  their  chief  the  elfin  host  appear'd, 
Each  little  helmet  sparkling  like  a  star, 

And  their  sharp  spears  a  pierceless  phalanx 

rear'd,  * 

A  grove  of  thistles  glistening  in  the  air. 

The  scene  then  changed  from  this  romantic 
land, 

To  a  bleak  waste  by  boundary  unconfined, 
Where  three  swart  sisters^  of  the  weird  band, 

Were  muttering  curses  to  the  troublous  wind. 

*  The  Witches  in  "  Macbeth." 


88  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Pale  want  had  wither'd  every  furrowed  face, 
Bowed  was  each  carcass  with  the  weight  of 
years, 

And  each  sunk  eyeball  from  its  hollow  case, 
DistilPd  cold  rheum's  involuntary  tears. 

Horsed  on   three   staves,  they  posted  to  the 

bourn 

Of  a  drear  island,  where  the  pendent  brow 
Of  a  rough  rock,  shagg'd  horribly  with  thorn, 
Frown 'd   on    the   boisterous    waves,   which 
raged  below. 

Deep  in  a  gloomy  grot,  remote  from  day, 
Where   smiling  comfort  never  showed  her 
face, 

Where  light  n'er  entered,  save  one  rueful  ray 
Discovering  all  the  terrors  of  the  place, 

They  held  damn'd  mysteries  with  infernal  state, 
Whilst  ghastly  goblins  glided  slowly  by, 

The  screech  owl  scream'd  the  dying  call  of  fate, 
And  ravens  croak'd  their  horrid  augury. 


TRIBUTES    TO   SHAKESPEARE.  89 

No  human  footstep  cheer'd  the  dread  abode, 
Nor  sign  of  living  creature  could  be  seen, 

Save  where  the  reptile  snake,  or  sullen  toad, 
The  murky  floor  had  soil'd  with  venom  green. 

Sudden  I  heard  the  whirlwind's  hollow  sound, 
Each  weird  sister  vanished  into  smoke ; 

Now  a  dire  yell  of  spirits  *  under  ground 
Through  troubled  earth's  wide  yawning  sur- 
face broke. 

When  lo  !  each  injured  apparition  rose ; 

Aghast  the  murderer  started  from  his  bed ; 
Guilt's  trembling  breath  his  heart's  real  current 

froze, 

And   horror's  dewdrops  bathed  his  frantic 
head. 

More  had  I  seen — but  now  the  god  of  day 
O'er  earth's  broad  breast,  his  flood  of  light 
had  spread, 

When  Morpheus  call'd  his  fickle  train  away, 
And  on  their  wings  each  bright  illusion  fled. 

*  Ghosts  in  "  Macbeth,"  "Richard  the  Third,"  etc. 


90  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Yet  still  the  dear  enchantress  of  the  brain, 
My   wakeful  eyes   with  wishful  wanderings 
sought, 

Whose  magic  will  controls  the  ideal  train, 
The  ever  restless  progeny  of  thought. 

"  Sweet  power !  (said  I)  for  others  gild  the  ray 
Of  wealth,  or  honour's  folly-feather'd  crown  ; 

Or  lead  the  madding  multitude  astray, 
To  grasp  at  air  blown  bubbles  of  renown  ; 

"Me   (humbler   lot!)   let  blameless  bliss  en- 
gage, 

Free  from  the  noble  mob's  ambitious  strife, 
Free  from  the  muckworm  miser's  lucrous  rage, 

In  calm  contentment's  cottaged  vale  of  life. 

"  If  frailties  there  (for  who  from  them  is  free  ?) 
Through  error's  maze,  my  devious  footsteps 
lead, 

Let  them  be  frailties  of  humanity, 

And  my  heart  plead  the  pardon  of  my  head. 


TRIBUTES    10    SHAKESPEARE.  91 

"  Let  not  my  reason  impiously  require, 

What  Heaven  has  placed  beyond  its  narrow 
span; 

But  teach  me  to  subdue  each  fierce  desire, 
Which  wars  within  this  little  empire,  man. 

"  Teach  me,  what  all  believe,  but  few  possess, 
That  life's  best  science  is  ourselves  to  know ; 

The  first  of  human  blessings  is  to  bless ; 
And  happiest  he  who  feels  another's  woe. 

"  Thus  cheaply  wise  and  innocently  great, 
While  time's  smooth  sand  shall  regularly  pass, 

Each  destined  atom's  quiet  course,  I'll  wait, 
Nor  rashly  break  nor  wish  to  stop  the  glass — 

"  And  when  in  death  my  peaceful  ashes  lie, 
If  e'er  some  tongue  congenial  speaks  my 

name, 

Friendship  shall  never  blush  to  breathe  a  sigh, 
And  great  ones  envy  such  an  honest  fame." 
JOHN  GILBERT  COOPER  (1755). 


92  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

TO  SHAKESPEARE. 

Far  from  the  sun  and  summer  gale, 

In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature's  darling  laid, 

What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  stray 'd, 

To  him  the  mighty  mother  did  unveil 

Her  awful  face ;  the  dauntless  child 

Stretch'd  forth  his  little  arms  and  smiled. 

"  This  pencil  take  "  (she  said)  "  whose  colours 

clear 

Richly  paint  the  vernal  year; 
Thine,  too,  these  golden  keys,  immortal  boy ! 
This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  joy, 
Of  horror  that,  and  thrilling  fears, 
Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  tears." 

THOMAS  GRAY. 
("The  Progress  of  Poesy,"  1755.) 


MONODY. 

(Written  near  Stratford-upon-Avon.) 
Avon,  thy  rural  views,  thy  pastures  wild, 
The  willows  that  o'erhang  thy  twilight  edge, 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  93 

Their   boughs  entangling  with  the  embattled 

sedge ; 

Thy  bank  with  watery  foliage  quaintly  fringed, 
Thy  surface  with  reflected  verdure  tinged, 
Soothe    me    with    many  a   pensive   pleasure 

mild. 

But  while  I  muse,  that  here  the  bard  divine, 
Whose    sacred    dust    yon    high-arch'd    aisles 

enclose, 

Where  the  tall  windows  rise  in  stately  rows, 
Above  the  embowering  shade, 
Here  first,  at  Fancy's  fairy-circled  shrine, 
Of  daisies  pied,  his  infant  offering  made ; 
Here  playful  yet,  in  stripling  years  unripe, 
Framed    of   thy    reeds    a    shrill    and    artless 

pipe,— 

Sudden  thy  beauties,  Avon,  all  are  fled ! 
As  at  the  waving  of  some  magic  wand  ; 
An  holy  trance  my  charmed  spirit  wings, 
And  awful  shapes  of  warriors  and  of  kings 
People  the  busy  mead, 
Like  spectres  swarming  to  the  wizard's  hall ; 


94  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

And   slowly  pace,   and  point   with   trembling 

hand 

The  wounds  ill-covered  by  the  purple  pall. 
Before  me  Pity  seems  to  stand 
A    weeping     mourner,    smote    with    anguish 

sore, 

To  see  Misfortune  rend  in  frantic  mood 
His  robe  with  regal  woes  embroidered  o'er. 
Pale  Terror  leads  the  visionary  band, 
And    sternly    shakes    his    sceptre,    dropping 

blood. 

THOMAS  WARTON  (1750). 


SHAKESPEARE'S  MONUMENT    AT 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

Great  Homer's  birth  seven  rival  cities  claim, 

Too  mighty  such  monopoly  of  fame ; 

Yet  not  to  birth  alone  did  Homer  owe 

His  wondrous  worth  ;  what  Egypt  could  bestow, 

With  all  the  schools  of  Greece  and  Asia  joined, 

Enlarged  the  immense  expansion  of  his  mind. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  95 

Nor  yet  unrivalled  the  Maconian  strain, 
The  British  Eagle,  and  the  Mantuan  Swan 
Tower  equal  heights.     But  happier,  Stratford, 

thou 

With  uncontested  laurels  deck  thy  brow ; 
Thy  Bard  was  thine  unschooled,  and  from  thee 

brought 

More  than  all  Egypt,  Greece,  or  Asia  taught. 
Not  Homer's  self  such  matchless  honors  won ; 
The  Greek  has  rivals,  but  thy  Shakespeare  none. 

(Anonymous.) 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  MONUMENT  TO 
SHAKESPEARE. 

"  O  youths  and  virgins  :  O  declining  eld : 
O  pale  misfortune's  slaves  :  O  ye  who  dwell 
Unknown  with  humble  quiet :  ye  who  wait 
In  courts,  or  fill  the  golden  seats  of  kings  : 
O  sons  of  sport  and  pleasure  :  O  thou  wretch 
That  weep'st  for  jealous  love,  or  the  sore 
wounds 


96  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Of  conscious  guilt,  or  death's  rapacious  hand, 
Which  left  thee  void  of  hope  :    O  ye  who  roam 
In  exile,  ye  who  through  the  embattled  field 
Seek  bright  renown,  or  who  for  nobler  palms 
Contend,  the  leaders  of  a  public  cause, 
Approach  :  behold  this  marble.     Know  ye  not 
The  features  ?  Hath  not  oft  his  faithful  tongue 
Told  you  the  fashion  of  your  own  estate, 
The  secrets  of  your  bosom  ?  Here,  then,  round 
His  monument  with  reverence  while  ye  stand, 
Say  to  each  other,   'This  was   Shakespeare's 

form; 

Who  walked  in  every  path  of  human  life, 
Felt  every  passion  ;  and  to  all  mankind 
Doth  now,  will  ever,  that  experience  yield, 
Which  his  own  genius  only  could  acquire.'  " 
MARK  AKENSIDE  (1721-1770), 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  97 

AN  EPISTLE  ADDRESSED  TO 

SIR  THOMAS  HANMER,  ON  HIS  EDITION 

OF    SHAKESPEARE'S    WORKS. 

Sir- 

While  born  to  bring  the  Muse's  happier  days, 
A  patriot's  hand  protects  a  poet's  lays, 
While  nursed  by  you  she  sees  her  myrtles  bloom, 
Green  and  unwithered  o'er  his  honored  tomb ; 
Excuse  her  doubts,  if  yet  she  fears  to  tell 
What  secret  transports  in  her  bosom  swell ; 
With  conscious  awe  she  hears  the  critic's  fame, 
And  blushing  hides  her  wreath  at  Shakespeare's 

name. 

Hard  was  the  lot  those  injured  strains  endured, 
Unowned  by  Science,  and  by  years  obscured ; 
Fair  Fancy  wept ;  and  echoing  sighs  confessed 
A  fixed  despair  in  every  tuneful  breast. 
#  *  #  # 

But  Heaven,  still  various  in  its  works,  decreed 
The  perfect  boast  of  time  should  last  succeed. 


98  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

The  beauteous  union  must  appear  at  length, 
Of  Tuscan  fancy  and  Athenian  strength ; 
One  greater  Muse  Eliza's  reign  adorn, 
And  even  a  Shakespeare  to  her  fame  be  born ! 

Yet,  ah  !  so  bright  her  morning's  opening  ray, 
In  vain  our  Britain  hoped  an  equal  day ! 
No  second  growth  the  western  isle  could  bear, 
At  once  exhausted  with  too  rich  a  year. 
Too  nicely  Jonson  knew  the  critic's  part  ; 
Nature  in  him  was  almost  lost  in  art. 
Of  softer  mould  the  gentle  Fletcher  came, 
The  next  in  order,  as  the  next  in  name ; 
With  pleased  attention,  midst  his  scenes  we  find, 
Each  glowing  thought  that  warms  the  female 

mind ; 

Each  melting  sigh,  and  every  tender  tear ; 
The  lover's  wishes,  and  the  virgin's  fear. 
His  every  strain  the  Smiles  and  Graces  own ; 
But  stronger  Shakespeare  felt  for  man  alone ; 
Drawn  by  his  pen,  our  ruder  passions  stand, 
The  unrivalled  picture  of  his  early  hand. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  99 

With  gradual  steps  and  slow,  exacter  France 
Saw  Art's  fair  Empire  o'er  her  shores  advance  : 
By  length  of  toil  a  bright  perfection  knew, 
Correctly  bold,  and  just  in  all  she  drew ; 
Till  late  Corneille,  with  Lucan's  spirit  fired, 
Breathed   the   free   strain,  as    Rome   and   he 

inspired ; 

And  classic  judgment  gained  to  sweet  Racine, 
The  temperate  strength  of  Maro's  chaster  line. 

But  wilder  far  the  British  laurel  spread, 

And  wreaths  less  artful  crown  our  poet's  head. 

Yet  he  alone  to  every  scene  could  give 

The  historian's   truth,  and  bid  the    manners 

live. 

Waked  at  his  call,  I  view  with  glad  surprise 
Majestic  forms  of  mighty  monarchs  rise. 
There    Henry's    trumpets    spread    their    loud 

alarms, 

And  laurelled  Conquest  waits  her  hero's  arms. 
Here  gentler  Edward  claims  a  pitying  sigh, 
Scarce  born  to  honors,  and  so  soon  to  die ! 


100  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Yet  shall  thy  theme,  unhappy  infant,  bring 

No  beam  of  comfort  to  the  guilty  king ; 

The  time  shall  come  when  Gloster's  heart  shall 

bleed, 

In  life's  last  hours,  with  horror  of  the  deed ; 
When  dreary  visions  shall  at  last  present 
Thy  vengeful  image  in  the  midnight  tent ; 
Thy  hand  unseen  the  secret  death  shall  bear, 
Blunt  the  weak  sword,  and  break  the  oppressive 

spear. 

Where'er  we  turn,  by  Fancy  charmed,  we  find 
Some  sweet  illusion  of  the  cheated  mind. 
Oft,  wild  of  wing,  she  calls  the  soul  to  rove 
With  humbler  nature  in  the  rural  grove ; 
Where  swains  contented  own  the  quiet  scene, 
And  twilight  fairies  tread  the  circled  green ; 
Dressed  by  her  hand,  the  woods  and  valleys 

smile, 

And  Spring  diffusive  decks  the  enchanted  isle. 
O,  more  than  all  in  powerful  genius  blest, 
Come,  take  thine  empire  o'er  the  willing  breast ! 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  IOI 

'Whate'er  the  wounds  this  youthful  heart  shall 
feel, 

Thy  songs  support  me,  and  thy  morals  heal ! 

There  every  thought  the  poet's  warmth  may 
raise, 

There  native  music  dwells  in  all  the  lays. 

O  might  some  verse  with  happiest  skill  per- 
suade 

Expressive  Picture  to  adopt  thine  aid ! 

What  wondrous  draughts  might  rise  from  every 
page! 

What  other  Raphaels  charm  a  distant  age ! 

#  #  *  * 

WILLIAM  COLLINS  (1744). 

[Sir  Thomas  Hanmer  (1677-1746)  was  a  mem- 
ber of  an  old  English  family,  an  Oxford  scholar, 
and  a  man  of  wealth  and  importance.  In  1744 
he  published  an  edition  of  Shakespeare,  in  six 
quarto  volumes,  which  involved  him  in  a  serious 
quarrel  with  Warburton,  who  intended  to  issue 
an  edition  of  Shakespeare  himself ;  and  though 
Hanmer  had  been  for  several  years  at  the  work, 
yet  Warburton,  enraged  at  his  issuing  his  first, 


102  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

charged  him  with  having  stolen  his  notes.  Han- 
mer's  edition  was  highly  esteemed  by  Johnson 
and  the  critics  of  the  day,  and  was  soon  sold  at 
an  exorbitant  price.  Collins  addressed  this  Epistle 
to  him  on  its  publication,  and  Gay  and  other 
writers  addressed  him  in  flattering  terms.] 


SHAKESPEARE. 

Shakespeare  (whom  you  and  every  play-house 

bill 

Style  the  divine,  the  matchless,  what  you  will) 
For  gain,  not  glory,  winged  his  roving  flight, 
And  grew  immortal  in  his  own  despite. 

*  *  #  * 

Not  but  the  tragic  spirit  was  our  own, 
And  full  in  Shakespeare,  fair  in  Otway  shone; 
But  Otway  failed  to  polish  or  refine, 
And  fluent  Shakespeare  scarce  effaced  a  line. 
ALEXANDER  POPE  (1732). 

(Extract    from   "  The  Satires  in  Imitation   of 
Horace.") 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  103 

TO   THE   IDOL   OF   MY   EYE,   AND   DE- 
LIGHT   OF    MY    HEART,  ANN 
HATHAWAY. 

Would  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng, 
With  love's  sweet  notes  to  grace  your  song, 
To  pierce  the  heart  with  thrilling  lay, 
Listen  to  mine  Ann  Hathaway ! 
She  hath  a  way  to  sing  so  clear, 
Phoebus  might  wondering  stoop  to  hear; 
To  melt  the  sad,  make  blithe  the  gay, 
And  Nature  charm,  Ann  hath  a  way ; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Ann  Hathaway ; 
To  breathe  delight  Ann  hath  a  way. 

When  Envy's  breath  and  rancorous  tooth, 

Do  soil  and  bite  fair  worth  and  truth, 

And  merit  to  distress  betray, 

To  soothe  the  heart  Ann  hath  a  way ; 

She  hath  a  way  to  chase  despair, 

To  heal  all  grief,  to  cure  all  care, 


104  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Turn  foulest  night  to  fairest  day, 

Thou  know'st,  fond  heart,  Ann  hath  a  way ; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Ann  Hathaway ; 
To  make  grief  bliss  Ann  hath  a  way, 

Talk  not  of  gems,  the  orient  list, 
The  diamond,  topaz,  amethyst, 
The  emerald  mild,  the  ruby  gay ; 
Talk  of  my  gem,  Ann  Hathaway ! 
She  hath  a  way,  with  her  bright  eye, 
Their  various  lustre  to  defy ; 
The  jewels  she,  and  the  foil  they, 
So  sweet  to  look  Ann  hath  a  way ; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Ann  Hathaway; 
To  shame  bright  gems,  Ann  hath  a  way, 

But  were  it  to  my  fancy  given 
To  rate  her  charms,  I'd  call  them  heaven ; 
For,  though  a  mortal  made  of  clay, 
Angels  must  love  Ann  Hathaway ; 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  105 

She  hath  a  way  so  to  control, 
To  rapture  the  imprisoned  soul, 
And  sweetest  heaven  on  earth  display, 
That  to  be  heaven  Ann  hath  a  way ; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Ann  Hathaway; 
To  be  heaven's  self  Ann  hath  a  way. 

[This  ballad  was  written  by  Charles  Dibdin 
(1745-1814),  though  it  has  been  ascribed  to 
Shakespeare.  "  It  may  be  found  set  to  music 
in  the  edition  of  Dibdin's  Songs  published  by 
Davidson  (London,  1848),  vol.  ii.,  p.  127  "  (Rolfe).] 


THE   BUST  OF   SHAKESPEARE. 

Stranger,  to  whom  this  monument  is  shown, 
Invoke  the  poet's  curses  on  Malone, 
Whose  meddling  zeal  his  barb'rous  taste  dis- 
plays, 

And  daubs  his  tombstone   as  he  marred   his 
plays. 

(Album  at  Stratford— Trinity  Church.) 


Io6  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

[The  Stratford  Bust,  to  which  these  lines  refer, 
is  in  the  chancel  of  Holy  Trinity  Church  at  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon.  It  is  considered  the  best  authen- 
ticated of  all  the  representations  which  we  have 
of  Shakespeare.  It  was  originally  painted  in  col- 
ors— to  resemble  life;  the  hair  and  beard  were 
auburn,  the  eyes  of  a  light  hazel,  and  the  doub- 
let was  scarlet.  By  order  of  Malone  in  1793,  and 
to  satisfy  his  classical  taste,  it  was  painted  a  uni- 
form white.  About  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago, 
Mr.  Collins,  of  London,  removed  the  white  paint, 
and  restored  this  interesting  relic  to  its  original 
colors.  The  head  of  the  Ward  statue  in  Central 
Park,  New  York,  is  modelled  from  the  Stratford 
Bust.  The  allusion  to  Malone's  edition  of  Shake- 
speare is  hardly  just,  as  he  was  a  most  painstaking 
editor.] 


WRITTEN   IN   THE  VISITORS'   BOOK 
AT   STRATFORD. 

The  eyes  of  Genius  glisten  to  admire 

How  Mem'ry  hails  the  sound  of  Shakespeare's 

lyre. 

One  tear  I'll  shed,  to  form  a  crystal  shrine 
For  all  that's  great,  immortal,  and  divine. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  107 

Let  princes  o'er  their  subject  kingdoms  rule, 
'Tis  Shakespeare's  province  to  command  the 

soul ! 

To  add  one  leaf,  oh,  Shakespeare  !  to  thy  bays, 
How  vain  the  effort,  and  how  mean  my  lays  ! 
Immortal  Shakespeare!  o'er  thy  hallow'd  page, 
Age  becomes  taught,  and  youth  is  e'en  made 

sage. 

PRINCE  LUCIEN  BONAPARTE  (1810). 

[Lucien  was  not  the  only  member  of  the  Bona- 
parte family  who  was  a  pilgrim  to  the  shrine  of 
Shakespeare  :  Napoleon  III.  spent  his  last  day  in 
England  there  before  being  proclaimed  Emperor 
of  the  French  (1852).] 


WRITTEN  BEFORE  RE-READING  "KING 
LEAR." 

O  golden-tongued  Romance  with  serene  lute ! 

Fair  plumed  Syren  !  Queen  !  if  far  away ! 

Leave  melodizing  on  this  wintry  day, 
Shut  up  thine  olden  volume,  and  be  mute. 


I08  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Adieu !  for  once  again  the  fierce  dispute, 
Betwixt  Hell  torment  and  impassion'd  clay 
Must  I  burn  through ;  once  more  assay 

The  bitter  sweet  of  this  Shakespearian  fruit. 

Chief  Poet !  and  ye  clouds  of  Albion, 
Begetters  of  our  deep  eternal  theme, 

When  I  am  through  the  old  oak  forest  gone 
Let  me  not  wander  in  a  barren  dream, 

But  when  I  am  consumed  with  the  Fire, 

Give  me  new  Phoenix-wings  to  fly  at  my  desire. 
JOHN  KEATS  (1818). 


WRITTEN   IN   THE  VISITORS'   BOOK 
AT   STRATFORD. 

Of  mighty  Shakespeare's  birth  the  room  we  see, 
That  where  he  died  in  vain  do  try. 

Useless  the  search,  for  all  immortal,  he, 
And  those  who  are  immortal  never  die. 

WASHINGTON  IRVING  (1818). 

[This  brief  poetical  tribute  to  Shakespeare  in- 
adequately expresses  Irving's  admiration.     It  was 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  109 

he,  in  his  "  Stratford-on-Avon  "  (1818),  who  first 
described  in  his  incomparable  prose  the  emotion 
which  a  visit  to  Shakespeare's  native  town  ex- 
cites in  the  heart  of  the  "  literary  pilgrim  of  every 
nation ;"  and  cold  and  dull  must  he  be  who  can- 
not say  with  Irving,  "Ten  thousand  honors  and 
blessings  on  the  bard  who  has  gilded  the  dull  re- 
alities of  life  with  innocent  illusions  !"] 


SHAKESPEARE  ODE. 

God  of  the  glorious  Lyre 
Whose  notes  of  old  on  lofty  Pindus  rang, 

While  Jove's  exulting  choir 
Caught  the  glad  echoes  and  responsive  sang, — • 

Come !  bless  the  service  and  the  shrine 

We  consecrate  to  thee  and  thine. 

Fierce  from  the  frozen  North, 
When  Havoc  led  his  legions  forth 

O'er  Learning's    sunny  groves  the  dark   de- 
stroyers spread ; 
In  dust  the  sacred  statue  slept, 
Fair  Science  round  her  altars  wept, 

And  Wisdom  cowl'd  his  head. 


110  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

At  length,  Olympian  lord  of  morn, 

The  raven  veil  of  night  was  torn, 
When  through  the  golden  clouds  descending, 

Thou  didst  hold  thy  radiant  flight, 
O'er  Nature's  lovely  pageant  bending, 

Till  Avon  roll'd  all  sparkling  to  thy  sight ! 

There,  on  its  bank,  beneath  the    mulberry's 

shade, 

Wrapp'd  in  young  dreams,  a  wild-eyed  minstrel 
stray'd. 

Lighting  there  and  lingering  long, 

Thou  didst  teach  the  bard  his  song ; 
Thy  fingers  strung  his  sleeping  shell, 

And  round  his  brows  a  garland  curl'd ; 
On  his  lips  thy  spirit  fell, 

And  bade  him  wake  and  warm  the  world. 

Then  Shakespeare  rose ! 
Across  the  trembling  strings 
His  daring  hand  he  flings, 

And  lo!  a  new  creation  glows  ! 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  Ill 

There,  clustering  round,  submissive  to  his  will, 
Fate's  vassal  train  his  high  commands  fulfil. 

Madness,  with  his  frightful  scream, 
Vengeance,  leaning  on  his  lance, 

Avarice,  with  his  blade  and  beam, 
Hatred,  blasting  with  a  glance, 

Remorse  that  weeps,  and  Rage  that  roars, 
And  Jealousy  that  dotes,  but  dooms  and  mur- 
ders, yet  adores. 

Mirth,  his  face  with  sunbeams  lit, 
Waking  laughter's  merry  swell, 

Arm  in  arm  with  fresh-eyed  Wit, 
That  waves  his  tingling  lash,  while  Folly  shakes 
his  bell. 

Despair,  that  haunts  the  gurgling  stream, 
Kiss'd  by  the  virgin  moon's  cold  beam, 
Where    some    lost    maid    wild    chaplets 

wreathes, 
And    swan -like,    thus    her    own     dirge 

breathes, 


112  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Then,  broken-hearted,  sinks  to  rest, 
Beneath  the  bubbling  wave  that  shrouds  her 
maniac  breast. 

Young  Love,  with  eye  of  tender  gloom, 
Now  drooping  o'er  the  hallow'd  tomb 
Where  his  plighted  victims  lie, — 
Where  they  met,  but  met  to  die ; 
And  now  when   crimson  buds  are  sleep- 
ing, 

Through  the  dewy  arbor  peeping, 
Where  Beauty's  child,  the  frowning  world  for- 
got, 

To  Youth's  devoted  tale  is  listening, 
Rapture  on  her  dark  lash  glistening, 
While  fairies  leave  their  cowslip  cells  and  guard 
the  happy  spot. 

Thus  rise  the  phantom  throng, 
Obedient  to  their  Master's  song, 
And  lead  in  willing  chains  the  wondering  soul 
along, 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  113 

For  other  worlds  war's  Great  One  sigh'd 

in  vain, — 
O'er  other  worlds  see  Shakespeare  rove 

and  reign ! 

The  rapt  magician  of  his  own  wild  lay, 
Earth  and  her  tribes  his  mystic  wand  obey. 

Old  Ocean  trembles,  Thunder  cracks  the 
skies, 

Air  teems  with  shapes,  and  tell-tale  spec- 
tres rise ; 

•. 

Night's  paltering  hags  their  fearful  orgies 
keep, 

And  faithless  Guilt  unseals  the  lip  of 
Sleep ; 

Time  yields  his  trophies  up,  and  Death  re- 
stores 

The  moulder'd  victims  of  his  voiceless 
shores ; 

The  fireside  legend  and  the  faded  page, 

The  crime  that  cursed,  the  deed  that 
bless'd  an  age, 


114  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

All,  all  come  forth, — the  good  to  charm 
and  cheer, 

To  scourge  bold  Vice,  and  start  the  gen- 
erous tear ; 

With  pictured  Folly,  gazing  fools  to  shame, 
And  guide  young  Glory's  foot  along  the  path 
of  fame. 

~Lo^\  hand  in  hand, 

Hell's  juggling  sisters  stand, 
To  greet  their  victim  from  the  fight ; 

Group'd  on  the  blasted  heath, 

They  tempt  him  to  the  work  of  death, 
Then   melt  in   air   and   mock  his  wondering 
sight. 

In  midnight's  hallow'd  hour, 

He  seeks  the  fatal  tower 
Where  the  lone  raven,  perch'd  on  high, 

Pours  to  the  sullen  gale 

Her  hoarse,  prophetic  wail, 
And  croaks  the  dreadful  moment  nigh. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  115 

See  by  the  phantom  dagger  led, 
Pale,  guilty  thing ! 

Slowly  he  steals,  with  silent  tread, 
And  grasps  his  coward  steel  to  smite  his  sleep- 
ing King ! 

Hark  !  'tis  the  signal  bell, 
Struck  by  that  bold  and  unsex'd  one 
Whose  milk  is  gall,  whose  heart  is  stone ; 

His  ear  hath  caught  the  knell, — 
'Tis  done  !  'tis  done  ! 
Behold  him  from  the  chamber  rushing, 
Where  his  dead  monarch's  blood  is  gushing! 

Look  where  he  trembling  stands, 
Sad  gazing  there, 

Life's  smoking  crimson  on  his  hands, 
And  in  his  felon  heart,  the  worm  of  wild  despair ! 

Mark  the  sceptred  traitor  slumbering ! 
There  flit  the  slaves  of  conscience  round, 

With  boding  tongue  foul  murders  number- 
ing; 
Sleep's  leaden  portals  catch  the  sound. 


Il6  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

In  his  dream  of  blood  for  mercy  quaking, 
At  his  own  dull  scream  behold  him  waking ! 
Soon  that  dream  to  fate  shall  turn ; 
For  him  the  living  furies  burn ; 
For  him  the  vulture  sits  on  yonder  misty  peak, 
And  chides  the  lagging  night,  and  whets  his 

hungry  beak. 

Hark !  the  trumpet's  warning  breath 
Echoes  round  the  vale  of  death. 
Unhorsed,  unhelm'd,  disdaining  shield, 
The  panting  tyrant  scours  the  field. 
Vengeance !  he  meets  thy  dooming  blade ! 

The  scourge  of  earth,  the  scorn  of  Heaven, 
He  falls  !  unwept  and  unforgiven, 
And  all  his  guilty  glories  fade. 
Like  a  crush'd  reptile  in  the  dust  he  lies, 
And  Hate's  last  lightning  quivers  from  his  eyes! 

Behold  yon  crownless  king, — 

Yon  white-lock'd,  weeping  sire, — 

Where  heaven's  unpillar'd  chambers  ring, 
And  burst  their  stream  of  flood  and  fire ! 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  117 

He  gave  them  all, — the  daughters  of  his  love ; 
That  recreant  pair  !  they  drive  him  forth  to  rove 
In  such  a  night  of  woe, 

The  cubless  regent  of  the  wood 

Forgets  to  bathe  her  fangs  in  blood, 
And  caverns  with  her  foe  ! 

Yet  one  was  ever  kind ; 

Why  lingers  she  behind  ? 

Oh  pity! — view  him  by  her  dead  form  kneel- 
ing, 

Even  in  wild  frenzy  holy  nature  feeling. 
His  aching  eyeballs  strain 

To  see  those  curtain'd  orbs  unfold, 
That  beauteous  bosom  heave  again ; 

But  all  is  dark  and  cold. 
In  agony  the  father  shakes ; 

Grief's  choking  note 

Swells  in  his  throat, 

Each  wither'd  heartstring  tugs  and  breaks ! 
Round  her  pale  neck  his  dying  arms  he  wreathes, 
And  on  her  marble  lips  his  last,  his  death-kiss 
breathes. 


Il8  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Down,  trembling  wing ! — shall  insect  weakness 
keep 

The  sun-defying  eagle's  sweep  ? 

A  mortal  strike  celestial  strings, 

And  feebly  echo  what  a  seraph  sings  ? 

Who  now  shall  grace  the  glowing  throne 

Where,  all  unrivalPd,  all  alone, 

Bold  Shakespeare  sat,  .and  look'd  creation 
through, 

The  minstrel  monarch  of  the  worlds  he  drew  ? 

That  throne  is  cold — that  lyre  in  death  unstrung, 

On  whose  proud  note  delighted  wonder  hung. 

Yet  Old  Oblivion,  as  in  wrath  he  sweeps, 

One  spot  shall  spare, — the  grave  where  Shake- 
speare sleeps. 

Rulers  and  ruled  in  common  gloom  may  lie, 

But  Nature's  laureate  bards  shall  never  die. 

Art's  chisell'd  boast  and  Glory's  trophied  shore 

Must  live  in  numbers,  or  can  live  no  more. 

While  sculptured  Jove  some  nameless  waste 
may  claim, 

Still  rolls  the  Olympic  car  in  Pindar's  fame ; 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  119 

Troy's  doubtful  walls  in  ashes  pass'd  away, 
Yet  frown  on  Greece  in  Homer's  deathless  lay; 
Rome,  slowly  sinking  in  her  crumbling  fanes, 
Stands,  all  immortal  in  her  Maro's  strains ; 
So,  too,  yon  giant  empress  of  the  isles, 
On  whose  broad  sway  the  sun  forever  smiles, 
To  Time's  unsparing  rage  one  day  must  bend, 
And  all  her  triumphs  in  her  Shakespeare  end ! 

O  Thou  !  to  whose  creative  power 
We  dedicate  the  festal  hour, 
While  Grace  and  Goodness  round  the  altar 

stand, 
Learning's  anointed  train,  and  Beauty's  rose- 

lipp'd  band — 

Realms  yet  unborn  in  accents  now  unknown, 
Thy  song  shall  learn,  and  bless  it  for  their  own. 

Deep  in  the  West,  as  Independence  roves, 
His  banners  planting  round  the  land  he  loves, 
Where  Nature  sleeps  in  Eden's  infant  grace, 
In  Time's  full  hour  shall  spring  a  glorious  race. 


120  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Thy  name,  thy  verse,  thy  language,  shall  they 

bear, 

And  deck  for  thee  the  vaulted  temple  there. 
Our  Roman-hearted  fathers  broke 
Thy  parent  empire's  galling  yoke  ; 
But  thou,  harmonious  master  of  the  mind, 
Around  their  sons  a  gentler  chain  shalt  bind ; 
Once  more  in  thee  shall  Albion's  sceptre  wave, 
And  what  her  monarch  lost,  her  monarch  Bard 
shall  save. 

CHARLES  SPRAGUE  (1823). 

[This  ode,  a  prize  poem,  was  read  at  the  Bos- 
ton Theatre  in  1823.] 


TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

He  lighted  with  his  golden  lamp  on  high, 
The  unknown  regions  of  the  human  heart, 
Showed  its  bright  fountains,  showed  its  rueful 

wastes, 
Its   shoals   and  headlands;    and  a  tower  he 

raised 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  121 

Refulgent,  where  eternal  breakers  roll, 
For  all  to  see,  but  no  man  to  approach. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR  (1824). 

["  Imaginary  Conversations  :  '  The  Abbe  De- 
lille  and  Walter  S.  Landor.'  "] 


WRITTEN   IN   A  VOLUME   OF   SHAKE- 
SPEARE. 

How  bravely  Autumn  paints  upon  the  sky 
The  gorgeous  fame   of   Summer    which   is 

fled! 

Hues  of  all  flowers  that  in  their  ashes  lie, 
Tropbied  in   that   fair   light  whereon  they 

fed, 

Tulip,  and  hyacinth,  and  sweet  rose  red, — 
Like  exhalations  from  the  leafy  mould, 

Look  here  how  honor  glorifies  the  dead, 
And  warms  their  scutcheons  with  a  glance  of 

gold! 
Such  is  the  memory  of  poets  old, 

Who  on  Parnassus'  hill  have  bloomed  elate  ; 


122  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Now  they  are  laid  under  their  marbles  cold, 
And    turned    to    clay,    whereof    they   were 

create ; 

But  god  Apollo  hath  them  all  enrolled, 
And  blazoned  on  the  very  clouds  of  fate ! 
THOMAS  HOOD  (1828). 


SHAKESPEARE. 

The  soul  of  man  is  larger  than  the  sky, 
Deeper  than  ocean,  or  the  abysmal  dark 
Of  the  unfathomed  centre.     Like  that  ark, 
Which  in  its  sacred  hold  uplighted  high, 
O'er  the  drowned  hills,  the  human  family, 
And  stock  reserved  of  every  living  kind, 
So,  in  the  compass  of  the  single  mind, 
The  seeds  and  pregnant  forms  in  essence  lie, 
That  make  all  worlds.    Great  poet,  'twas  thy 

art, 

To  know  thyself,  and  in  thyself  to  be 
Whate'er  love,  hate,  ambition,  destiny, 
Or  the  firm  fatal  purpose  of  the  heart, 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  123 

Can  make  of  man.    Yet  thou  wert  still  the  same, 
Serene  of  thought,  unhurt  by  thy  own  flame. 
HARTLEY  COLERIDGE  (1833). 


STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 

(JANUARY,  1837.) 

We  stood  upon  the  tomb  of  him  whose  praise 

Time,  nor  oblivion's  thrift,  nor  envy  chill, 
Nor  War,  nor  ocean  with  her  severing  space, 

Shall  hinder  from  the  peopled  world  to  fill ; 
And  thus,  in  fulness  of  our  heart,  we  cried ; 

God's  works  are  wonderful, — the  circling  sky, 
The  rivers  that  with  noiseless  footing  glide, 

Man's  firm-built  strength,  and  woman's  liquid 

eye; 

But  the  high  spirit  that  sleepeth  here  below, 
More  than  all  beautiful  and  stately  things, 
Glory  to  God,  the  mighty  Maker,  brings ; 
To  whom  alone  'twas  given  the  bounds  to  know 
Of  human  action,  and  the  secret  springs 
Whence  the  deep  streams  of  joy  and  sorrow  flow. 

HENRY  ALFORD, 
Dean  of  Canterbury  (1810-1871), 


124  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

How  little  fades  from  earth  when  sink  to  rest 

The  hours  and  cares  that  move  a  great  man's 
breast ! 

Though  naught  of  all  we  saw  the  grave  may 
spare, 

His  life  pervades  the  world's  impregnate  air ; 

Though  Shakespeare's  dust  beneath  our  foot- 
steps lies, 

His  spirit  breathes  amid  his  native  skies. 

With  meaning  won  from  him  forever  glows 

Each  air  that  England  feels,  and  star  it 
knows ; 

His  whispered  words  from  many  a  mother's 
voice 

Can  make  her  sleeping  child  in  dreams  re- 
joice ; 

And  gleams  from  spheres  he  first  conjoined  to 
earth 

Are  blest  with  rays  of  each  new  morning's 
birth. 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  125 

Amid  the  sights  and  tales  of  common  things, 
Leaf,  flower,  and  bird,  and  wars,  and  deaths  of 

kings — 

Of  shore  and  sea,  and  Nature's  daily  round, 
Of  life   that   tills,  and  tombs   that   load   the 

ground, 

His  visions  mingle,  swell,  command,  pace  by, 
And  haunt  with  living  presence,  heart  and  eye. 
And  tones  from  him  by  other  bosoms  caught 
Awaken  flush  and  stir  of  mounting  thought ; 
And  the  long  sigh,  and  deep,  impassioned  thrill 
Rouse  custom's  trance,  and  spur  the  faltering 

will. 

Above  the  goodly  land,  more  his  than  ours, 
He  sits  supreme,  enthroned  in  skyey  towers, 

And  sees  the  heroic  brood  of  his  creation 
Teach  larger  life  to  his  ennobled  nation. 
O  shaping  brain  !     O  flashing  fancy's  hues  ! 
O  boundless  heart  kept  fresh  by  pity's  dews ! 
C)  wit  humane  and  blithe  !     O  sense  sublime ! 
For  each  dim  oracle  of  mantled  time  ! 


126  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Transcendent  form  of  man  !  in  whom  we  read 
Mankind's  whole  tale  of  impulse,  thought,  and 

deed! 

Amid  the  expanse  of  years,  beholding  thee, 
We  know  how  vast  our  world  of  life  may  be, 
Wherein,  perchance,  with    aims    as    pure    as 

thine, 

Small  tasks  and  strengths  may  be  no  less  di- 
vine. 

JOHN  STERLING  (1839). 


TO   SHAKESPEARE. 

If  from  the  height  of  that  celestial  sphere, 
Where  now  thou  dwellest,  spirit  powerful" and 

sweet ! 
Thou  yet   canst  love   the   race  that  sojourn 

here, 

How  must  thou  joy,  with  pleasure  not  unmeet 
For  thy  exalted  state,  to  know  how  dear 
Thy  memory  is  held  throughout  the  earth 
Beyond  the  favored  land  that  gave  thee  birth. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  127 

E'en  in  thy  seat  in  heaven  thoit  mayest  receive 
Thanks,  praise,  and  love,  and  wonder  ever  new, 
From  human  hearts,  who  in  thy  verse  perceive 
All  that  humanity  calls  good  and  true ; 
Nor  dost  thou  for  each  mortal  blemish  grieve 
They  from  thy  glorious  works  have  fallen  away, 
As  from  thy  soul  its  outward  form  of  clay. 

FRANCES  ANNE  KEMBLE  (1844). 


TO  SHAKESPEARE. 

Oft  when  my  lips  I  open  to  rehearse 

Thy  wondrous    spells    of  wisdom,    and    of 

power, 
And  that  my  voice,  and  thy  immortal  verse 

On  listening  ears  and  hearts  I  mingled  pour, 
I  shrink  dismayed,  and  awful  doth  appear 

The  vain  presumption  of  my  own  weak  deed  , 
Thy  glorious  spirit  seems  to  mine  so  near, 

That  suddenly  I  tremble  as'  I  read ! 
Thee  an  invisible  auditor  I  fear. 
O,  if  it  might  be  so,  my  master  dear ! 


128  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

With  what  beseeching  would  I  pray  to  thee, 
To  make  me  equal  to  my  noble  task  ! 
Succor  from  thee  how  humbly  would  I  ask, 

Thy  worthiest  works  to  utter  worthily ! 

FRANCES  ANNE  KEMBLE  (1844). 


WRITTEN   IN   THE   VISITORS'   BOOK 
AT   STRATFORD. 

Stratford-on-Avon !     Well,  I  think  I  must 

See  Shakespeare's  house — his  tomb  and  bust 

I've  seen,  and  just  maligned  Malone 

For  daubing  Shakespeare's  bust  of  stone, 

And  could  not  let  his  works  alone. 

Just  now  I'm  rather  in  a  pet, 

I've  sketched  his  house,  and  got  quite  wet. 

And  now  I  sit,  turn  o'er  and  look 

The  countless  names  writ  in  this  book. 

And  try  to  think  with  all  my  might, 

That  I've  also  a  right  to  write. 

But  hold,  I  fear  to  increase  my  crime, 

To  give  as  reason,  doggerel  rhyme. 

DANIEL  MACLISE  (1811-1870). 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  129 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Others  abide  our  question.     Thou  art  free. 
We  ask  and  ask.     Thou  smilest,  and  art  still, 
Out-topping  knowledge.     For  the  loftiest  hill, 
Who  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty, 
Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea, 
Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwelling- 
place, 

Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 
To  the  foiled  searching  of  mortality ; 
And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sunbeams 

know, 

Self-schooled,  self-scanned,  self-honored,  self- 
secure, 

Didst  tread  on  earth  unguessed  at.     Better  so  ! 
All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure, 
All  weakness  which  impairs,  all  griefs  which 

bow, 

Find  their  sole  speech  in  that  victorious  brow. 
MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


130  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

ON   MRS.  KEMBLE'S   READINGS  FROM 
SHAKESPEARE. 

O  precious  evenings  !  all  too  swiftly  sped  ! 
Leaving  us  heirs  to  amplest  heritages 
Of  all  the  best  thoughts  of  the  greatest  sages, 

And  giving  tongues  unto  the  silent  dead  ! 

How  our  hearts  glowed  and  trembled  as  she 

read, 

Interpreting  by  tones  the  wondrous  pages 
Of  the  great  poet  who  foreruns  the  ages, 

Anticipating  all  that  shall  be  said ! 

O  happy  Reader  !  having  for  thy  text 

The  magic  book,  whose  Sibylline  leaves  have 

caught 
The  rarest  essence  of  all  human  thought ! 

O  happy  Poet !  by  no  critic  vext ! 

How  must  thy  listening  spirit  now  rejoice, 
To  be  interpreted  by  such  a  voice ! 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW  (1850). 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  131 

STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

To  Stratford-on-the-Avon — And  we  passed 
Thro'  aisles  and  avenues  of  the  princeliest  trees 
That  ever  eyes  beheld.     None  such  with  us 
Here  in  the  bleaker  North.     And  as  we  went 
Through  Lucy's  park,  the  red  day  dropt  i'  the 

west ; 

A  crimson  glow,  like  blood  in  lovers'  cheeks, 
Spread  up  the  soft  green  sky  and  passed  away ; 
The  mazy  twilight  came  down  on  the  lawns, 
And  all  those  huge  trees  seemed  to  fall  asleep  ; 
The  deer  went  past  like  shadows.    All  the  park 
Lay  round   us  like   a   dream ;   and  one  fine 

thought 

Hung  over  us,  and  hallowed  all.  Yea,  he, 
The  pride  of  England,  glistened  like  a  star, 
And  beckoned  us  to  Stratford. 

ROBERT  LEIGHTON  (1822-1869). 


132  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

POETRY   IMMORTAL. 

The  sacred  beings  of  poetic  birth 
Immortal  live  to  consecrate  the  earth. 
San  Marco's  pavement  boasts  no  doge's  tread, 
And  all  its  ancient  pageantry  has  fled ; 
Yet,  as  we  muse  beneath  some  dim  arcade, 
The  mind's  true  kindred  glide  from  ruin's  shade ; 
In  every  passing  eye  that  sternly  beams 
We  start  to  meet  the  Shylock  of  our  dreams ; 
Each  maiden  form,  where  virgin  grace  is  seen, 
Crosses  our  path  with  Portia's  noble  mien  ; 
While  Desdemona,  beauteous  as  of  yore, 
Yields  us  the  smile  that  once  entranced  the 

Moor. 

#  #  #  =* 

Long  ere  brave  Nelson  shook  the  Baltic  shore, 
The  bard  of  Avon  hallow'd  Elsinore ; 
Perchance  when  moor'd  the  fleet,  awaiting  day, 
To  fix  the  battle's  terrible  array, 
Some  pensive  hero,  musing  o'er  the  deep, 
So  soon  to  fold  him  in  its  dreamless  sleep, 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  133 

Heard   the  Dane's    sad   and   self-communing 

tone 

Blend  with  the  water's  melancholy  moan, 
Recall'd,    with     prayer     and    awe -suspended 

breath, 

His  wild  and  solemn  questionings  of  death, 
Or  caught  from  land  Ophelia's  dying  song, 
Swept  by  the  night-breeze  plaintively  along ! 
HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN  (1813-1871). 


SHAKESPEARE   IN    ITALY. 

Beyond  our  shores,  beyond  the  Apennines, 
Shakespeare,  from   heaven  came  thy  creative 

breath ! 

'Mid  citron  grove  and  overarching  vines 
Thy  genius  wept  at  Desdemona's  death  ; 
In  the  proud  sire  thou  badest  anger  cease, 
And  Juliet  by  her  Romeo  sleeps  in  peace. 
Then  rose  thy  voice  above  the  stormy  sea, 
And  Ariel  flew  from  Prospero  to  thee. 

W.  S.  LANDOR  (July,  1860). 


134  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

In  poetry,  there  is  but  one  supreme, 

Though    there    are    many   angels    round   his 

throne, 

Mighty  and  beauteous,  while  his  face  is  hid. 

LANDOR. 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE. 

(APRIL   23,   1864.) 

She  sat  in  her  eternal  house, 

The  sovereign  mother  of  mankind  ; 

Before  her  was  the  peopled  world, 
The  hollow  night  behind. 

"  Below  my  feet  the  thunders  break, 
Above  my  head  the  stars  rejoice ; 

But  man,  although  he  babbles  much, 
Has  never  found  a  voice. 

"Ten  thousand  years  have  come  and  gone, 

And  not  an  hour  of  any  day, 
But  he  has  dumbly  looked  to  me, 

The  things  he  could  not  say. 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  135 

"  It  shall  be  so  no  more,"  she  said, 
And  then  revolving  in  her  mind, 

She  thought :  "  I  will  create  a  child 
Shall  speak  for  all  his  kind." 

It  was  the  spring-time  of  the  year, 
And  lo,  where  Avon's  waters  flow, 

The  child,  her  darling,  came  on  earth, 
Three  hundred  years  ago. 

There  was  no  portent  in  the  sky, 
No  cry,  like  Pan's,  along  the  seas, 

Nor  hovered  round  his  baby  mouth 
The  swarm  of  classic  bees. 

What  other  children  were,  he  was, 
If  more,  'twas  not  to  mortal  ken ; 

The  being  likest  to  mankind, 
Made  him  the  man  of  men. 

They  gossiped,  after  he  was  dead, 

An  idle  tale  of  stealing  deer ; 
One  thinks  he  was  a  lawyer's  clerk; 

But  nothing  now  is  clear. 


136  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Save  that  he  married,  in  his  youth, 
A  maid,  his  elder ;  went  to  town ; 

Wrote  plays  ;  made  money ;  and  at  last 
Came  back,  and  settled  down, 

A  prosperous  man,  among  his  kin, 
In  Stratford,  where  his  bones  repose. 

And  this — what  can  be  less  ? — is  all 
The  world  of  Shakespeare  knows. 

It  irks  us  that  we  know  no  more, 

For  where  we  love,  we  would  know  all ; 

What  would  be  small  in  common  men, 
In  great  is  never  small. 

Their  daily  habits,  how  they  looked, 

The  color  of  their  eyes  and  hair, 
Their  prayers,  their  oaths,  the  wine  they  drank, 

The  clothes  they  used  to  wear, 

Trifles  like  these  declare  the  men 

And  should  survive  them — nay,  they  must ; 
We'll  find  them  somewhere  ;  if  it  needs, 

We'll  rake  among  their  dust ! 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  1.37 

Not  Shakespeare's  !     He  has  left  his  curse 

On  him  disturbs  it ;  let  it  rest, 
The  mightiest  that  ever  Death 

Laid  in  the  earth's  dark  breast. 

Not  to  himself  did  he  belong 

Nor  does  his  life  belong  to  us ; 
Enough,  he  was  ;  give  up  the  search 

If  he  were  thus,  or  thus. 

Before  he  came  his  like  was  not, 

Nor  left  he  heirs  to  share  his  powers ; 

The  mighty  Mother  sent  him  here, 
To  be  his  voice  and  ours. 

To  be  her  oracle  to  man, 

To  be  what  man  may  be  to  her ; 
Between  the  Maker  and  the  made, 

The  best  interpreter. 

The  hearts  of  all  men  beat  in  his, 

Alike  in  pleasure  and  in  pain ; 
And  he  contained  their  myriad  minds, 

Mankind  in  heart  and  brain. 


138  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Shakespeare  !  what  shapes  are  conjured  up 
By  that  one  word  !  They  come  and  go, 

More  real,  shadows  though  they  be, 
Than  many  a  man  we  know. 

Hamlet  the  Dane,  unhappy  Prince, 

Who  most  enjoys  when  suffering  most ; 

His  soul  is  haunted  by  itself — 
There  needs  no  other  Ghost. 

The  Thane,  whose  murderous  fancy  sees 

The  dagger  painted  in  the  air ; 
The  guilty  King,  who  stands  appalled 

When  Banquo  fills  his  chair. 

Lear  in  the  tempest,  old  and  crazed, 

"  Blow  winds,  spit  fire,  singe  my  white  head !" 

Or,  sadder,  watching  for  the  breath 
Of  dear  Cordelia — dead  ! 

The  much-abused  relentless  Jew, 
Grave  Prospero,  in  his  magic  isle, 

And  she  who  captived  Anthony, 
The  serpent  of  old  Nile. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  139 

Imperial  forms,  heroic  souls, 

Greek,  Roman,  masters  of  the  world, 

Kings,  queens,  the  soldier,  scholar,  priest, 
The  courtier,  sleek  and  curled ; 

He  knew  and  drew  all  ranks  of  men, 
And  did  such  life  to  them  impart, 

They  grow  not  old,  immortal  types, 
The  Lords  of  Life  and  Art. 

Their  sovereign  he,  as  she  was  his, 

The  awful  Mother  of  the  Race, 
Who,  hid  from  all  her  children's  eyes, 

Unveiled  to  him  her  face  ; 

Spake  to  him  till  her  speech  was  known, 
Through  him  till  man  had  learned  it ;  then 

Enthroned  him  in  her  Heavenly  House, 
The  most  supreme  of  Men  ! 

R.  H.  STODDARD. 


140  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

(A  CELEBRATION  ODE,  APRIL  23,  1864.) 

Ring  out,  glad  bells,  your  blithest  lays 

In  honor  of  our  poet's  fame ; 

Join  heart  and  voice,  with  loud  acclaim, 
To  flood  the  land  with  grateful  praise. 

Not  all  the  trophies  he  hath  won 

Are  worthy  of  his  skill  divine. 

Bow,  nation — bow  before  his  shrine, 
And  own  your  greatest,  grandest  son. 

No  hero,  crushing  human  wrongs — 
No  champion,  bleeding  for  the  right, 
Hath  equalled  in  the  great  world's  fight, 

Our  conqueror  in  the  strife  of  tongues. 

O  myriad  mind  !  whose  matchless  lyre 
Could  only  speak  with  living  word, 
Whose   sound,  full    oft,   dead   hearts    hath 
stirred 

To  fervent  breathings  of  desire ; 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  141 

The  music  thou  dost  richly  pour, 
In  silver  cadence  far  and  near, 
Like  Oberon's  love- juice,  charms  the  ear, 

And  all  who  listen  must  adore. 

First  scholar  of  Dame  Nature's  throng, 
And  by  no  other  teacher  taught, 
He  dug  his  treasure-caves  of  thought 

From  Avon  with  its  silver  song — 

And  yet,  though  men  have  yearned  to  find, 
Through  thrice  a  hundred  years  of  toil, 
Those  Alpine  heights  of  unturned  soil, 

Where  towers  the  summit  of  his  mind ; 

Their  mightiest  efforts  are  but  vain 

To  grasp  its  greatness — scale  its  height ; 
The  mountain-top  eludes  the  sight 

Of  weary  watchers  on  the  plain  ! 

His  glory  glimmers  from  afar, 

Through  hecatombs  of  buried  years ; 
Yet  fairer  now  to  light  appears, 

And  queenlier  than  the  evening  star. 


142  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Let  all,  to-day,  his  name  revere ; 

Ring,  happy  land,  with  grateful  praise ! 

And  crown  with  never-fading  bays 
Our  poet,  preacher,  sage,  and  seer ! 

Chime  on,  ye  tuneful  bells — chime  on  ! 

Proclaim  to  all  our  generous  pride ; 

And  let  the  nations  far  and  wide 
Behold  how  Britain  loves  her  son. 

Chambers 's  Journal,  March,  1864. 


SHAKESPEARE. 

(TERCENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION,  APRIL  23, 
1864.) 

"  Who  claims  our  Shakespeare  from  that  realm 

unknown, 

Beyond  the  storm-vexed  islands  of  the  deep, 
Where  Genoa's  roving  mariner  was  blown  ? 
Her   twofold    Saint's-day   let   our   England 

keep ; 

Shall  warring  aliens  share  her  holy  task  ?" 
The  Old  World  echoes  ask. 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  143 

O  land  of  Shakespeare !  ours  with  all  thy  past, 
Till  these  last  years  that  make  the  sea  so 

wide, 
Think  not  the  jar  of  battle's  trumpet-blast 

Has  dulled  our  aching  sense  to  joyous  pride 
In  every  noble  word  thy  sons  bequeathed 
The  air  our  fathers  breathed  ! 

War-wasted,  haggard,  panting  from  the  strife, 

We  turn  to  other  days  and  far-off  lands, 
Live  o'er  in  dreams  the  Poet's  faded  life, 

Come  with  fresh  lilies  in  our  fevered  hands 
To  wreathe  his  bust,  and  scatter  purple  flow- 
ers,— 
Not  his  the  need,  but  ours ! 

We  call  those  poets  who  are  first  to  mark 
Through  earth's  dull  mist  the  coming  of  the 

dawn, — 
Who  see  in  twilight's  gloom  the  first  pale  spark, 

While  others  only  note  that  day  is  gone ; 
For  him  the  Lord  of  light  the  curtain  rent 
That  veils  the  firmament. 


144  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

The  greatest  for  its  greatness  is  half  known, 
Stretching    beyond    our    narrow    quadrant- 
lines, — 

As  in  that  world  of  Nature  all  outgrown 
Where  Calaveras  lifts  his  awful  pines, 
And  cast  from  Mariposa's  mountain-wall 
Nevada's  cataracts  fall. 

Yet  heaven's  remotest  orb  is  partly  ours, 
Throbbing  its  radiance  like  a  beating  heart ; 

In  the  wide  compass  of  angelic  powers 

The  instinct  of  the  blindworm  has  its  part ; 

So  in  God's  kingliest  creature  we  behold 
The  flower  our  buds  infold. 

With  no  vain  praise  we  mock  the  stone-carved 

name 
Stamped  once  on  dust  that  moved  with  pulse 

and  breath, 

As  thinking  to  enlarge  that  amplest  fame 
Whose  undimmed  glories  gild  the  night  of 
death ; 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  145 

We  praise  not  star  or  sun ;  in  these  we  see 
Thee,  Father,  only  thee ! 

Thy  gifts  are  beauty,  wisdom,  power,  and  love ; 
We  read,  we  reverence  on  this  human  soul, — 
Earth's  clearest  mirror  of  the  light  above, — 

Plain  as  the  record  on  thy  prophet's  scroll, 
When   o'er  his   page    the    effluent    splendors 

poured, 
Thine  own,  "  Thus  saith  the  Lord  !" 

This  player  was  a  prophet  from  on  high, 

Thine  own  elected,     Statesman,  poet,  sage, 
For  him  thy  sovereign  pleasure  passed  them  by ; 
Sidney's  fair  youth,  and  Raleigh's  ripened 

age, 

Spenser's  chaste  soul,  and  his  imperial  mind 
Who  taught  and  shamed  mankind. 

Therefore  we  bid  our  hearts'  Te  Deum  rise, 
Nor  fear  to  make  thy  worship  less  divine, 

And  hear  the  shouted  choral  shake  the  skies, 
Counting  all  glory,  power,  and  wisdom  thine  ; 


146  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

For  thy  great  gift  thy  greater  name  adore, 
And  praise  thee  evermore ! 


In  this  dread  hour  of  Nature's  utmost  need, 
Thanks  for  those  unstained  drops  of  fresh- 
ening dew  ! 
O,  while  our  martyrs  fall,  our  heroes  bleed, 

Keep  us  to  every  sweet  remembrance  true, 
Till  from  this  blood-red  sunset  springs  new- 
born 
Our  Nation's  second  morn ! 

O.  W.  HOLMES. 


ODE  ON  SHAKESPEARE'S   BIRTHDAY. 

In  Stratford  upon  Avon 

Where  the  silent  waters  flow, 

The  immortal  Drama  woke  from  sleep, 
Three  hundred  years  ago. 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  147 

Then  as  the  long  dark  ages  rolled  away, 
A  light  from  Heaven   shone   on    Shake- 
speare's face. 
Land  of  the  illustrious  Dead !     With  thee 

this  day, 
We    love    to    linger    near   the    hallowed 

place, 

For  wert  thou  not  the  Fatherland  of  our  New 
England  race  ? 

Beyond  the  Rocky  Mountains, 

From  the  Golden  Gate  of  fame, 
Far  East  to  Schoodic's  misty  shores, 

Is  heard  his  honored  name. 
Live  where  we  may,  such  life-like  scenes  he 

drew, 

Arrayed  in  robes  of  beauty,  all  his  own, 
Nature  herself  proclaims  each  picture  true 
To    Albion's    echoing   hills;  —  nor   there 

alone, 

As  e'en  Megara  speaks  in  Prospero's  thunder- 
tone. 


148  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Ah  !  what  a  halcyon  memory, 

Our  school-boy  days  bring  on, 
When  young  Othello  told  us  how 

He  Desdemona  won ! 
Where  are  the  voices  that  once  filled  the 

air? 
Let  not  stern  manhood  deem  the  illusion 

wrong, 
When  the  boy  dreamed  the  enchanted  isle 

was  there, 

Near  Academic  grove  unknown  to  song, 
Where  Kennebec  among  the  hills,  meandering 
glides  along. 

Not  in  the  Theatre  alone 

Is  seen  his  wondrous  power, 
Though  some  great  actor  tread  the  stage, 

The  pageant  of  an  hour ; 
He    visits    many    a    humble    home  —  and 

when 

Some  brave  thought  stirs  the  heart  by  sor- 
row riven, 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  149 

We  feel  like  heroes — though  we  live  like 

men 

In  lowly  lot :  for  here  full  oft  at  even, 
The  Bard  of  Avon  sweeps  the  ^Eolian  harp  of 
Heaven. 

England  with  all  thy  glory 

From  the  Druid  days  of  old, 
Not  Crecy's  pride,  nor  Agincourt 
Nor  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold, 
Shines  with  such  virtue  in  all  coming  time 

As  genius,  learning,  minstrelsy  inspire 
They  fill  the  ideal  world  with  thoughts  sub- 
lime, 

Guiding  Ambition's  eye  to  aim  far  higher, 
Than  light  the  flames  of  civil  war,  with  strange, 
unholy  fire ! 

They  gleam  like  stars  in  history 

Along  a  dreary  waste, 
Who  first  enlarged  the  bounds  of  mind, 

Or  raised  the  tone  of  taste. 


150  TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE. 

Thus  Bacon  looms  up  in  that  glorious  age, 
Of  Spenser's  lay  and  Jonson's  critic  eye, 
When  a  Promethean  spark  illum'd  the  stage, 
And   Shakespeare    drew  such  scenes    of 

time  gone  by, 
That  Life  a  Drama  seems,  midst  shadows  of 

Eternity. 

JOHN  H.  SHEPPARD. 

(Celebration  by  New  England  Historical  and 
Genealogical  Society,  April  23,  1864.) 


SHAKESPEARE. 

I  wish  that  I  could  have  my  wish  to-night ; 
For  all  the  fairies  should  assist  my  flight 

Back  into  the  abyss  of  years  ; 
Till  I  could  see  the  streaming  light, 

And  hear  the  music  of  the  spheres 
That  sang  together  at  the  joyous  birth 
Of  that  immortal  mind, 
The  noblest  of  his  kind — 
The  only  Shakespeare   that   has  graced   our 
earth. 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  151 

Oh,  that  I  might  behold 
Those  gentle  sprites,  by  others  all  unseen, 

Queen  Mab  and  Puck  the  bold, 

With  curtseys  manifold 
Glide  round  his  cradle  every  morn  and  e'en ; 

That  I  might  see  the  nimble  shapes  that  ran 

And  frisked  and  frolicked  by  his  side, 
When  school-hours  ended  or  began, 

At  morn  or  eventide  ; 
That  I  might  see  the  very  shoes  he  wore, 

Upon  the  dusty  street, 
His  little  gown  and  pinafore, 

His    satchel    and    his    schoolboy  rig   com- 
plete ! 

If  I  could  have  the  wish  I  rhyme, 
Then  should  this  night,  and  all  it  doth  con- 
tain, 

Be  set  far  back  upon  the  rim  of  Time, 
And    I   would    wildered    be    upon    a    stormy 
plain ; 


152  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

The  wanton  waves  of  winter  wind  and  storm 
Should  beat  upon  my  ruddy  face, 
And  on  my  streaming  hair ; 

And  hags  and  witches  multiform, 
And  beldames  past  all  saintly  grace, 

Should  hover  round  me  in  the  sleety  air  ! 

Then  hungry,  cold,  and  frightened   by  these 

imps  of  sin, 

And  breathless  all  with  buffeting  the  storm, 
Betimes  I  would  arrive  at  some  old  English 

inn, 

Wainscoted,  high  and  warm. 
The  fire  should  blaze  in  antique  chimney-place ; 
And  on  the  high-backed  settles,   here  and 

there, 

The  village  gossip,  and  the  merry  laugh 
Should  follow  brimming  cups  of  half-an'-half ; 

Before  the  fire,  in  hospitable  chair, 
The  landlord  fat  should  bask  his  shining  face, 

And  slowly  twirl  his  pewter  can ; 
And  there  in  his  consummate  grace, 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  153 

The  perfect  lord  of  wit, 
The  immortal  man, 

The   only  Shakespeare   of  this   earth   should 
sit. 

There,  too,  that  Spanish  galleon  of  a  hulk, 

Ben  Jonson,  lying  at  full  length, 
Should  so  dispose  his  goodly  bulk 
That  he  might  lie  at  ease  upon  his  back, 

To  test  the  tone  and  strength 

Of  Boniface's  sherris-sack. 

* 

And  there  should  be  some  compeers  of  these 

two, 

Rare  wits  and  poets  of  the  land, 
Whom  all  good  England  knew, 
And    who    are    now    her    dear    forget  -  me  - 

nots ; 
And  they  should  lounge   on   Shakespeare's 

either  hand, 
And  sip  their  punch  from  queer  old  cans  and 

pots. 


154  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Oh,  then,  such  drollery  should  begin, 
Such  wit  flash  out,  such  humor  run 

Around  the  fire  in  this  old  English  inn, 

The  veriest  clod  would  be  convulsed  with  fun ; 

And  Boniface's  merry  sides  would  ache, 

And  his  round  belly  like  a  pudding  shake. 

Never  since  the  world  began 

Has  been  such  repartee ; 
And  never  till  the  next  begins, 
Will  greater  things  be  said  by  man, 

Than  this  same  company 
Were  wont  to  say  so  oft  in  those  old  English 
inns. 

Dear  artist,  if  you  paint  this  picture  mine, 
Do  not  forget  the  storm  that  roars 
Above  the  merry  din    and  laughter  within 
doors ; 

But  let  some  stroke  divine 

Make  all  within  appear  more  rich  and  warm, 

By  contrast  with  the  outer  storm. 

HENRY  AMES  BLOOD. 
April  23,  1864. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  155 

THE  STRATFORD  JUBILEE. 

(APRIL  23,  1864.) 

Went  not  thy  spirit  gladly  with  us  then, 

Most  genial   Shakspeare  !  —  wast   thou   not 

with  us 
Who  throng'd  to  honor  thee  and  love  thee 

thus, 

A  few  among  thy  subject  fellow-men  ? 
Yea, — let  me  truly  think  it ;  for  thy  heart 
(Though  now  long-since  the  free-made  citizen 
Of  brighter  cities  where  we  trust  thou  art,) 
Was  one,  in  its  great  whole  and  every  part, 

With  human  sympathies ;  we  seem  to  die, 
But  verily  live  ;  we  grow,  improve,  expand, 
When  Death  transplants  us  to  that  Happier 

Land ; 
Therefore,  sweet  Shakspeare,  came  thy  spirit 

nigh, 

Cordial  with  Man,  and  grateful  to  High  Heaven 
For  all  our  love  to  thy  dear  memory  given. 
MARTIN  F.  TUPPER. 


156  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

THE    TWO     POETS. 

(APRIL  23,  1864.) 
SHAKESPEARE. 

Gramercy  !    What  a  night  for  stalking  deer  ! 
My  kingdom  for  a —    Hold !  what  have  we  here  ! 
A  head  of  Schiller  !     Phoebus  !  can  it  be, 
Schiller  in  Central  Park  ahead  of  me  ? 

SCHILLER. 
Goodden,  good  Shakespeare ;  Guten  Abend — 

long 

Have  I  thy  coming  waited,  Prince  of  Song, 
Guarding   the   snowy   flocks   that   round    me 

throng. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

What  flocks,  O  Schiller !  cujum  pecus  ? — say 
Whose  errant  sheep  into  thy  pasture  stray? 

SCHILLER. 

No  errant  sheep ;  but  the  white  birds  that  yon 
The  lakelet's  placid  bosom  rest  upon, 
And  are  to  mankind  thy  comparison. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  157 

SHAKESPEARE. 

O  faithful  Schiller !  who,  by  lake  and  river, 

My  truant  swans  thus  unto  me  deliver, 

Half  of  my  white-necked  flock  be  thine  forever ! 

[This  is  from  Harper  s  Weekly,  with  an  accom- 
panying cut  of  a  scene  in  Central  Park,  where 
Shakespeare  stands  before  the  bust  of  Schiller,  as 
if  addressing  him.] 

SHAKESPEARE. 

(Quatrain.) 
I  see  all  human  wits 

Are  measured  but  a  few ; 
Unmeasured  still  my  Shakespeare  sits, 
Lone  as  the  blessed  Jew. 

R.  W.  EMERSON  (1867). 


SHAKESPEARE. 
England's  genius  rilled  all  measure 
Of  heart  and  soul,  of  strength  and  pleasure, 
Gave  to  the  mind  its  emperor, 
And  life  was  larger  than  before ; 
Nor  sequent  centuries  could  hit 
Orbit  and  sum  of  Shakespeare's  wit. 


158  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

The  men  who  lived  with  him  became 
Poets,, for  the  air  was  fame. 

R.  W.  EMERSON. 
(Extract  from  "  Solution,"  1867.) 


IN    THE    OLD    CHURCHYARD    AT 
FREDERICKSBURG. 

In  the  old  churchyard  at  Fredericksburg, 

A  gravestone  stands  to-day, 
Marking  the  place  where  a  grave  has  been, 
Though  many  and  many  a  year  it  has  seen, 
Since  its  tenant  mouldered  away. 
And  that  quaintly  carved  old  stone 
Tells  its  simple  tale  to  all  ;— 
"  Here  lies  a  bearer  of  the  pall 
At  the  funeral  of  Shakespeare." 

There  in  the  churchyard  at  Fredericksburg, 

I  wandered  all  alone, 
Thinking  sadly  on  empty  fame, 
How  the  great  dead  are  but  a  name, — 

To  few  are  they  really  known. 

Then  upon  this  battered  stone, 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  159 

My  listless  eye  did  fall, 
Where  lay  the  bearer  of  the  pall, 
At  the  funeral  of  Shakespeare. 

Then  in  the  churchyard  at  Fredericksburg, 

It  seemed  as  though  the  air 
Were  peopled  with  phantoms  that  swept  by, 
Flitting  along  before  my  eye, 
So  sad,  so  sweet,  so  fair ; 
Hovering  about  this  stone, 

By  some  strange  spirit's  call, 
Where  lay  a  bearer  of  the  pall, 
At  the  funeral  of  Shakespeare. 

For  in  the  churchyard  of  Fredericksburg, 

Juliet  seemed  to  love, 
Hamlet  mused,  and  the  old  Lear  fell, 
Beatrice  laughed,  and  Ariel 

Gleamed  through  the  skies  above, 
As  here  beneath  this  stone 
Lay  in  his  narrow  hall, 
He  who  before  had  borne  the  pall 
At  the  funeral  of  Shakespeare. 


160  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

And  I  left  the  old  churchyard  at  Fredericksburg; 

Still  did  the  tall  grass  wave, 
With  a  strange  and  beautiful  grace, 
O'er  the  sad  and  lonely  place 

Where  hidden  lay  the  grave  ; 
And  still  did  the  quaint  old  stone 
Tell  its  mournful  tale  to  all : — 
"  Here  lies  a  bearer  of  the  pall, 
At  the  funeral  of  Shakespeare." 
FREDERICK  WADSWORTH  LORING  (1870). 

[The  above  poem  was  suggested  by  this  news- 
paper paragraph : 

"  In  the  cemetery  of  Fredericksburg,  Va.,  there 
is  a  red-sandstone  slab  with  the  following  inscrip- 

Here  lies  the  body  of 

EDWARD     HELDON 

PRACTITIONER  IN  PHYSICS  AND  CHIRURGERY. 

Born  in  Bedfordshire,  England,  in  the  year  of  our 
Lord  1542;  was  contemporary  with,  and  one  of 
the  pall  bearers  of  William  Shakespeare.  After 
a  brief  illness,  his  spirit  ascended,  in  the  year  of 
our  Lord  1618 — aged  76." 

While  the  author  did  not  consider  it  a  fact, 
the  poetical  subject  fired  his  imagination,  and  he 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  l6l 

wrote  the  poem  which  was  published  in  the  At- 
lantic Monthly,  September,  1870. 

The  Heldon  myth  again  went  the  rounds  of 
the  newspapers  in  1884.  Dr.  W.  J.  Rolfe  ex- 
plained the  probable  foundation  for  the  ingenious 
hoax,  in  regard  to  this  alleged  pall  bearer,  in  the 
columns  of  the  Literary  World  for  December, 
1884,  and  January,  1885,  and  of  it  the  late  Mr. 
Halliwell- Phillips  wrote,  "The  pall  story  is  ap- 
palling in  its  absurdity." 

There  is  a  melancholy  interest  attached  to  the 
poem,  on  account  of  the  tragic  fate  of  its  young 
author.  Mr.  Loring  was  killed  by  Indians  in 
Arizona,  in  1871,  when  he  was  only  twenty-three 
years  of  age.] 


SHAKESPEARE. 

When  first  the  tuneful  Nine  their  table  spread, 
And  bade  of  mortals  the  immortal  few 
To  banquet,  it  was  counted  Shakespeare's  due 

To  sit,  as  sovereign  master,  at  the  head ; 

And  there,  on  either  hand,  by  fair  nymphs  fed, 
All  drinking  from  the  fountain,  fresh  and  new, 
The  wine  of  Helikon,  sat  other  two — 

Dante  and  Homer  crowned  and  garlanded. 


1 62  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Since  then,  a  thousand  goodly  men  have  sought 
To  catch  the  crumbs  which  from  that  table  fell ; 

A  million  poems  have  been  deftly  wrought, 
But  still  the  waves  of  song  no  higher  swell. 

Like  rain-drops  lost,  unnumbered  in  the  sea, 

Shall  deathless  Shakespeare's  followers  ever  be ! 
SIMEON  TUCKER  CLARK. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  STATUE. 
(CENTRAL  PARK,  NEW  YORK,  MAY  23,  1872.) 

i. 

In  this  free  Pantheon  of  the  air  and  sun, 
Where  stubborn  granite  grudgingly  gives  place 
To  petted  turf,  the  garden's  daintier  race 
Of  flowers,  and  Art  hath  slowly  won 
A  smile  from  grim,  primeval  barrenness, 

What  alien  Form  doth  stand  ? 
Where  scarcely  yet  the  heroes  of  the  land, 
As  in  their  future's  haven,  from  the  stress 
Of  all  conflicting  tides,  find  quiet  deep 

Of  bronze  or  marble  sleep, 
What  stranger  comes,  to  join  the  scanty  band  ? 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  163 

Who  pauses  here,  as  one  that  muses 

While  centuries  of  men  go  by, 
And  unto  all  our  questioning  refuses 

His  clear,  infallible  reply  ? 
Who  hath  his  will  of  us,  beneath  our  new-world 

sky? 

ii. 

Here,  in  his  right,  he  stands  ! 
No  breadth  of  earth-dividing  seas  can  bar 
The  breeze  of  morning,  or  the  morning  star, 

From  visiting  our  lands  : 
His  wit,  the  breeze,  his  wisdom,  as  the  star, 
Shone  where  our  earliest  life  was  set,  and  blew 

To  freshen  hope  and  plan 

In  brains  American, — 
To  urge,  resist,  encourage,  and  subdue  ! 
He  came,  a  household  ghost  we  could  not  ban  : 
He  sat,  on  winter  nights,  by  cabin  fires ; 
His  summer  fairies  linked  their  hands 

Along  our  yellow  sands  ; 

He  preached  within  the  shadow  of  our  spires ; 
And  when  the  certain  Fate  drew  nigh,  to  cleave 
The  birth-cord,  and  a  separate  being  leave, 


164  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

He,  in  our  ranks  of  patient-hearted  men, 
Wrought  with  the  boundless  forces  of  his 

fame, 

Victorious,  and  became 

The    Master  of  our  thought,  the  land's  first 
Citizen ! 

in. 

If,  here,  his  image  seem 
Of  softer  scenes  and  grayer  skies  to  dream, 
Thatched  cot  and  rustic  tavern,  ivied  hall, 

The  cuckoo's  April  call 
And  cowslip-meads  beside  the  Avon  stream, 
He  shall  not  fail  that  other  home  to  find 

We  could  not  leave  behind ! 
The  forms  of  Passion,  which  his  fancy  drew, 

In  us  their  ancient  likenesses  beget : 
So,  from  our  lives  forever  born  anew, 

He  stands  amid  his  own  creations  yet ! 
Here  comes  lean  Cassius.  of  conventions  tired ; 

Here,  in  his  coach,  luxurious  Antony 

Beside  his  Egypt,  still  of  men  admired ; 

And  Brutus  plans  some  purer  liberty ! 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  165 

A  thousand  Shylocks,  Jew  and  Christian,  pass ; 

A  hundred  Hamlets,  by  their  times  betrayed ; 

And  sweet  Anne  Page  comes  tripping  o'er  the 

grass, 
And    antlered    Falstaff   pants    beneath   the 

shade. 
Here  toss  upon  the  wanton  summer  wind 

The  locks  of  Rosalind ; 
Here  some  gay  glove  the  damned  spot  conceals 

Which  Lady  Macbeth  feels ; 
His  ease  here,  smiling  smooth  lago  takes, 

And  outcast  Lear  gives  passage  to  his  woe, 
And  here  some  foiled  Reformer  sadly  breaks 

His  wand  of  Prospero  ! 
In  liveried  splendor  side  by  side, 
Nick  Bottom  and  Titania  ride  ; 
And  Portia,  flushed  with  cheers  of  men, 
Disdains  dear  faithful  Imogen  ; 
And  Puck,  beside  the  form  of  Morse, 
Stops  on  his  forty-minute  course ; 
And  Ariel  from  his  swinging  bough 
A  blossom  casts  on  Bryant's  brow, 


1 66  TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE. 

Until,  as  summoned  from  his  brooding  brain, 

He  sees  his  children  all  again, 
In  us,  as  on  our  lips,  each  fresh,  immortal  strain  ! 

IV. 

Be  welcome,  Master !     In  our  native  air 

Keep  the  calm  strength  we  need  to  learn  of 

thee! 

A  steadfast  anchor  be 

'Mid  passions  that  exhaust,  and  times  that  wear ! 
Thy  kindred  race,  that  scarcely  knows 

What  power  is  in  Repose, 
What  permanence  in  Patience,  what  renown 
In  silent  faith  and  plodding  toil  of  Art 

That  shyly  works  apart, 
All  these  in  thee  unconsciously  doth  crown  ! 

v. 

The  Many  grow,  through  honor  to  the  One ; 
And  what  of  loftier  life  we  do  not  live, 

This  Form  shall  help  to  give, 
In  our  free  Pantheon  of  the  air  and  sun ! 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  167 

Here,  where  the  noise  of  Trade  is  loudest, 

It  builds  a  shrine  august, 
To  show,  while  pomp  of  wealth  is  proudest, 
How  brief  is  gilded  dust : 
How  Art  succeeds,  though  long, 
And  o'er  the  tumult  of  the  generations, 
The  strong,  enduring  spirit  of  the  nations, 

How  speaks  the  voice  of  Song ! 
Our  City,  at  her  gateways  of  the  sea, 

Twines  bay  around  the  mural  crown  upon  her, 
And  wins  new  grace  and  dearer  dignity, 
Giving  our  race's  Poet,  honor  ! 
If  such  as  he 
Again  may  ever  be, 
And  our  humanity  another  crown 
Find  in  some  equal,  late  renown, 
The  reverence  of  what  he  was  shall  call  it  down! 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

[This  poem  was  written  for  the  dedication  of 
the  statue  to  Shakespeare  in  Central  Park,  May, 
1872.  Mr.  W.  C.  Bryant  delivered  the  oration 
on  the  occasion,  and  Mr.  Edwin  Booth  recited 
Stoddard's  poem  to  Shakespeare  (1864).] 


1 68  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

What  shall  his  crown  be?     Not  the  laurel  leaf 
That,  blood-besprinkled,  decks  the  warrior's 

head, 
Who  grasps  at  glory  as  destruction's  chief, 

A  living  monument  to  thousands  dead ; 
Bequeathing  a  vast  legacy  of  grief, 

Some  pest  incarnate  fed  with  human  life 
Born  of  ambition,  or  the  lust  of  strife. 
In  regal  diadem,  shall  we  proclaim 
Him  monarch  ?     That  would  circumscribe  his 

worth ; 

A  kingly  coronet  would  only  shame  . 
The  kinglier  Thought  whose  realm  is  the  whole 

earth. 

Such  petty  vanities  but  mock  his  fame. 
Profane  it  not,  he  is  all  crowns  above ! 
Hero  of  Peace,  Evangelist  of  Love  ! 

JOHN  BROUGHAM. 

[Written  for  the  dedication  of  the  Ward  statue 
in  Central  Park,  May,  1872.] 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  169 

ANNE   HATHAWAY. 

Once  on  a  time  when  jewels  flashed, 
And  moonlit  fountains  softly  splashed, 
And  all  the  air  was  sweet  and  bright 
With  music,  mirth,  and  deft  delight, 
A  courtly  dame  drew,  laughing,  near 

A  poet — greatest  of  his  time — 
And  chirped  a  question  in  his  ear, 

With  voice  like  silver  bells  in  chime : 
"  Good  Mr.  Shakespeare,  I  would  know 

The  name  thy  lady  bore,  in  sooth, 
Ere  thine.     Nay,  little  time  ago 

It  was — for  we  still  mark  her  youth ; 
Some  high-born  name,  I  trow,  and  yet, 
Altho'  I've  heard  it,  I  forget." 
Then  answered  he  with  dignity, 
Yet  blithely — for  the  hour  was  gay — 
"  My  lady's  name — Anne  Hathaway." 

"  And  good,  sweet  sir,"  the  dame  pursued, 
Too  fair  and  winsome  to  be  rude, 


1 70  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

"  Tis  whispered  here  and  whispered  there, 
By  doughty  knights  and  ladies  fair, 
That — that — well, — that  her  royal  lord 

Does  e'en  obey  her  lightest  will ; 
Now,  my  good  spouse — I  pledge  my  word — 

Tho'  loving  well,  doth  heed  me  ill ; 
How  art  thou  conquered,  prithee  tell," 

She  pleaded  with  her  pretty  frown  ; 
"  I  fain  would  know  what  mighty  spell 

Can  bring  a  haughty  husband  down." 
She  ceased  and  raised  her  eager  face 
To  his,  with  laughing,  plaintive  grace. 
Then  answered  he,  with  dignity, 
Yet  blithely — for  the  hour  was  gay — 
"  Ah  lady,  I  can  only  say 
Her  name  again— Anne  Hath-a-way." 


SCOTT'S   SHAKESPEARE. 
When  Scotland's  master  genius  raised 

The  veil  of  long  departed  time, 
And  bade  us  wonder  while  we  gazed 

On  regal  pomp  and  feudal  crime ; 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  171 

Touched  with  the  rays  of  living  light 

That  darted  from  his  magic  pen, 
Heroes  and  kings  stood  out  to  sight, 

As  if  they  breathed  and  moved  again. 

When  midst  the  noblest  of  the  land, 

The  vision'd  form  of  Shakespeare  came, 

Even  he — the  enchanter — stayed  his  hand, 
Nor  dared  to  sport  with  Shakespeare's  name. 

[The  above  stanzas  were  suggested  by  the 
glimpse  of  Shakespeare  introduced  into  the 
novel  of  "  Kenilworth,"  where  a  few  gracious 
words  were  addressed  to  him  by  Leicester  at  the 
palace  gate,  and  received  by  the  immortal  dram- 
atist in  respectful  silence.] 

SHAKESPEARE. 

The  name  of  human  names  we  most  revere, 
That  in  our  cradle-days  we  used  to  hear ; 
The  first  that  on  our  waking  senses  fell, 
As  if  we  came  to  life  beneath  its  spell ; 
Whose  strong  attracting  force  our  souls  obeyed, 
And  grew  to  strength  beneath  his  vital  grade. 


172  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

What  precious  memories   these   thoughts   in- 
spire 

Of  our  fair  mother  and  our  fervid  sire, 

Their  fine  rehearsals  round  the  evening  fire ! 

How    the    great    poet's    music    filled    their 
lives, 

And    in    their    children's    children    still    sur- 
vives ; 

And  how  they  made  their  own  his  thoughts 

that  reach 

The  human  heart,  through  every  grade  and 
change. 

These     shaped,    without     intent,    our    daily 

speech, 
And  gave  our  lives  a  higher,  brighter  range. 

His  was  the  living  sympathetic  glass 
That  holds,  forever,  pictures  as  they  pass ; 
That  brings  each  moral  feature  out  to  view, 
Disclosing  what  is  false  and  what  is  true ; 
That  measures  values,  not  by  what  appears, 
But  by  the  tests  of  truth,  like  holy  seers. 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  173 

He  lost  no  truth  that  fell  upon  its  face ; 

All  lesser  lights  he  drew  into  his  own — 
Attracting,  nature-like,  each  form  of  grace, 

As  birds  of  plumage  seek  the  torrid  zone. 

He    drew    the     nuggets     from     the     golden 

lands — 
Such  shapes  he  made  of  these,  none  else  can 

make — 

Leaving  for  others  the  few  sparkling  sands 
That,   in   his  wealth,  he   never  stooped  to 
take. 

What    startling    figures    leaves    he    on    the 

wall, 

As  fires  electric  shed  their  glyphic  trace ; 
What  precious  pictures  from  his  fingers  fall, 
As  hands  of  skill   on  grounds   of  gold  en^ 

chase ; 
What  fiery  strokes    of  pride,   and  truth,  and 

brand, 
Appear  beneath  his  all-engrossing  hand — 


174  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

The  hand  that  makes  the  passions  come  and  go, 
That  masters  all  their  fitful,  changing  forms, 

Whose  fierce  attractions  cause  their  overflow, 
Whose  meteoric  laws  control  their  storms  ; 

Whose  forms  of  beauty — fresh  and  young  with 
force — 

He  passes  o'er  us  in  their  bright  array, 
As  stars  are  clustered  in  their  starry  course 

And  chase  each  other  in  the  Milky  Way; 

Whose  forms  ethereal — like  the  solar  beams 
Whence  men  have  wrested  types  of  things 
on  earth, 

So  these  come  down  in  subtler  golden  streams, 
Of  part  terrestrial,  part  aerial  birth, 

Appearing  now  in  tears  and  then  in  mirth. 

We  marvel  much  that  beings  of  an  hour 

To  vaster  scopes,  like  his,  should  e'er  attain, 

And  share  almost  the  wondrous  sense  of  power 
That  triumphed  in  his  heart,  and  hand,  and 
brain. 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  175 

But  God  had  touched  him  with  a  glorious  ray, 
Endued  him  with  resemblance  of  His  might, 

To  use  the  grander  forces  of  the  day, 

To  fill  with  star-dust  all  the  fields  of  night. 

Through  all  his  rushing  world  there  throbs  the 
beat 

Of  life  momentous,  present,  far  and  near ; 
We  feel  the  press  of  forces,  and  the  heat 

Of  seething  passions  ;  over  all  we  hear, 
Above  the  wings  of  flying  ages  hear — 
Surpassing  Roman  grace,  surpassing  Greek, 
Exceeding  all  we  hope  man  yet  may  speak — 
His  living  voices,  playful,  sweet,  and  clear — 
His,  sterner,  grander,  masterful,  severe  ! 

He  spake  as  those  might  speak  that  understand 
The    more    sublime    of    God's    unwritten 

speech ; 

He  leads  us  step  by  step,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Up  to  the  glorious  heights  the  angels  reach. 
MARY  H.  WELLES  PUMPELLY  (1873). 


176  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

A  vision  as  of  crowded  city  streets, 
With  human  life  in  endless  overflow  ; 
Thunder  of  thoroughfares  ;    trumpets   that 

blow 

To  battle  ;  clamor,  in  obscure  retreats, 
Of  sailors  landed  from  their  anchored  fleets ; 
Tolling  of  bells  in  turrets,  and  below 
Voices  of  children,  and  bright  flowers  that 

throw 

O'er  garden  walls  their  intermingled  sweets  ! 
This  vision  comes  to  me  when  I  unfold 
The  volume  of  the  Poet  paramount, 
Whom  all  the  muses  loved,  not  one  alone  ; — 
Into  his  hands  they  put  the  lyre  of  gold, 

And,  crowned  with   sacred   laurel  at   their 

fount, 

Placed  him  as  Musagetes  on  their  throne. 
H.  W.  LONGFELLOW  (1875). 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  177 

WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE. 

Not  if  men's  tongues  and  angels'  all  in  one 
Spake,  might  the  word  be  said  that  might 

speak  Thee. 

Streams,  winds,  woods,  flowers,  fields,  moun- 
tains, yea,  the  sea, 

What  power  is  in  them  all  to  praise  the  sun  ? 
His  praise  is  this, — he  can  be  praised  of  none. 
Man,  woman,  child,  praise  God  for  him ;  but 

he 

Exults  not  to  be  worshipped,  but  to  be. 
He  is  :  and,  being,  beholds  his  work  well  done. 
All  joy,  all  glory,  all  sorrow,  all   strength,  all 

mirth, 

Are  his  ;  without  him,  day  were  night  on  earth. 
Time  knows  not  his  from  time's  own  period. 
All  lutes,  all  harps,  all  viols,  all  flutes,  all  lyres, 
Fall  dumb  before  him  ere  one  string  suspires. 
All  stars  are  angels :  but  the  sun  is  God. 
ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 

12 


178  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

SONNET.— TO    ENGLAND. 

Our  mother,  which  wast  twice,  as  history  saith, 

Found  first  among  the  nations :  once,  when  she 

Who  bore  thine  ensign  saw  the  God  in  thee 

Smite  Spain,   and  bring   forth    Shakespeare; 

once,  when  death 
Shrank,  and  Rome's  bloodhounds  cowered,  at 

Milton's  breath : 

More  than  thy  place,  then  first  among  the  free ; 
More  than  that  sovereign  lordship  of  the  sea 
Bequeathed  to  Cromwell  from  Elizabeth ; 
More  than  thy  fiery  guiding-star,  which  Drake 
Hailed,  and  the  deep  saw  lit  again  for  Blake ; 
More  than  all  deeds  wrought  of  thy  strong 

right  hand, — 
This  praise  keeps  most  thy  fame's  memorial 

strong, 

That  thou  wast  head  of  all  these  streams  of  song, 
And  time   bows    down  to  thee   as  Shake- 
speare's land. 

ALGERNON  C,  SWINBURNE. 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  179 

TO   EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 

(WITH  "SHAKESPEARE'S   SONNETS.") 

Had  we  been  living  in  the  antique  days, 
With  him,  whose  young  but  cunning  fingers 

penned 
These  sugared  sonnets  to  his  strange  sweet 

friend, 

I  dare  be  sworn  we  would  have  won  the  bays. 
Why  not  ?    We  could  have  turned  in  amorous 

phrase 

Fancies  like  these,  where  love  and  friend- 
ship blend, 

(Or  were  they  writ  for  some  more  private  end  ?) 
And  this,  we  see,  remembered  is  with  praise. 

Yes,  there's  a  luck  in  most  things,  and  in  none 
More  than  in  being  born  at  the  right  time ; 

It  boots  not  what  the  labor  to  be  done, 
Or  feats  of  arms,  or  art,  or  building  rhyme. 
Not  that  the  heavens  the  little  can  make  great, 
But  many  a  man  has  lived  an  age  too  late. 
RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


l8o  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

WITH    "SHAKESPEARE'S    SONNETS." 
(To  JAMES  LORIMER  GRAHAM,  JR.) 

What  can  I  give  him,  who  so  much  hath  given, 

That  princely  heart,  so  over-kind  to  me, 
Who,  richly   guerdoned    both    of    earth    and 

heaven, 

Holds  for  his  friends  his  heritage  in  fee  ? 
No.  costly  trinket  of  the  golden  ore, 

Nor  precious  jewel  of  the  distant  Ind. 
Ay  me  !    These  are  not  hoarded  in  my  store, 
Who  have  no  coffers  but  my  grateful  mind. 
What  gift  then — nothing?     Stay,  this  Book  of 

Song 

May  show  my  poverty  and  thy  desert, 
Steeped,  as   it   is,  in   love,  and  love's   sweet 

wrong, 

Red  with  the  blood  that  ran  through  Shake- 
speare's heart. 

Read  it  once  more,  and,  fancy  soaring  free, 
Think,  if  thou  canst,  that  I  am  singing  Thee. 
RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  l8l 

WRITTEN  ON  A  FLY-LEAF  OF  "SHAKE- 
SPEARE'S  SONNETS." 

When  shall  true  love  be  love  without  alloy  : 
Shine  free  at  last  from  sinful  circumstance ! 
When  shall  the  canker  of  unheavenly  chance 

Eat  not  the  bud  of  that  most  heavenly  joy ! 

When  shall  true  love  meet  love  not  as  a  coy 
Retreating  light  that  leads  a  deathful  dance, 
But  as  a  firm  fixed  fire  that  doth  enhance 

The  beauty  of  all  beauty !     Will  the  employ 

Of  poets  ever  be  too  well  to  show 

That  mightiest  love  with   sharpest  pain  doth 

writhe  ; 
That  underneath  the  fair,  caressing  glove 

Hides  evermore  the  iron  hand ;  and  though 
Love's  flower  alone  is  good,  if  we   would 
prove 

Its  perfect  bloom,    our  breath    slays   like    a 

scythe ! 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


182  TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE. 

AT    STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 
Thus  spake  his  dust  (so  seemed  it  as  I  read 
The  words) :    Good  frend,  for  Jesus'   sake 

forbeare 
(Poor   ghost!)      To   digg  the  dust  enclosed 

heare — 

Then  came  the  malediction,  on  the  head 
Of  who  so  dare  disturb  the  sacred  dead. 
Outside  the  mavis  whistled  strong  and  clear, 
And,  touched  with  the  sweet  glamour  of  the 

year, 

The  winding  Avon  murmured  in  its  bed. 
But  in  the  solemn  Stratford  church  the  air 
Was  chill  and  dank,  and  on  the  foot-worn 

tomb 

The  evening  shadows  deepened  momently; 

Then  a  great  awe  crept  on  me,  standing  there, 

As  if  some  speechless  Presence  in  the  gloom 

Was  hovering,  and  fain  would  speak  with 

me. 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  183 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Like  to  a  glass  of  magic  old 

His  soul  each  passing  image  caught ; 

His  mind  an  ocean  that  could  hold 
The  river  of  each  human  thought. 

My  dimmer  eyes  meet  far-off  rays 

His  all  immortal  vision  saw ; 
That  inner  world — the  Dawn  of  Days — 

Breaks  through  the  clouds   earth's  vapors 
draw. 

And  ever,  while  I  read,  there  seems 

A  world  of  real  life  around ; 
And  friends  of  old  float  through  the  dreams 

Of  peopled  air  and  fairy  ground. 

Great  Nature's  self  so  in  him  dwelt, 

With  all  her  wealth  of  songs  and  springs, 

That  never  throb  of  his  is  felt, 
But  she  is  vocal  while  he  sings. 

J.  M.  ROGERS. 


184  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

HIRAM    HAYES    IN    STRATFORD. 

Once  I  journeyed  while  the  mavis, 
O'er  the  English  meadows  sang ; 

It  was  beauteous  summer  weather, 
All  the  roads  with  music  rang. 

Hiram  Hayes  was  my  companion, 
Straight  from  Boston  he  had  come — 

Purse  as  long  as  John  J.  Astor's, 
Head  as  hollow  as  a  drum. 

Towards  the  leafy  lanes  of  Warwick, 
Merrily  the  stage  coach  flew — 

How  I  clapped  my  hands  and  shouted,* 
"  Soon  in  Stratford  we'll  be  due/' 

"What  of  that?'7  asked  weary  Hiram. 

"  Shakespeare's  country  !  glorious  Will ! 
We  shall  see  the  spire  of  Avon 

When  we  mount  up  yonder  hill ! 

"  There  his  home  was  ;  there  his  grave  is ; 

There  his  fancies  grew  sublime ; 
There  he  plumed  his  mighty  pinions, 

Built  his  fame  up  for  all  time." 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  185 

"  Drive  on  faster  !     I  sha'n't  stop  there  !" 

Muttered  Mr.  Hiram  Hayes ; 
"  Shakespeare  never  would  be  thought  of 

If  he  hadn't  writ  them  plays !" 

Atlantic  Monthly. 


SHAKESPEARE. 

Adam     of    poets !      thou     must     once     have 

felt 

The  Almighty's  awful  nearness  unto  thee ; 
Into     the     nostrils     of     thy     soul     seemed 

dealt 
The     breath     of    all     the     poets     yet     to 

be. 
Not    through    long    generations    didst    thou 

come, 
But  contact  with  the  Almighty  gave  thee 

birth  ; 
Charged  with  His  breathing,  what  the  mighty 

sum 
Of  all  that  thou  hast  given  to  the  earth  ! 


1 86  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

And  is  it  said,  thou  often  wroughtest  so 
That  holy  inspiration  was  profaned  ? 
Ah !     Adam's  self  hath  taught — too  well  we 

know 

How  far  he  falls  who  hath  such  height  at- 
tained. 

Adam  of  poets,  still,  despite  the  dross, — 
Thy  truth  the  saviour  that  redeems  from  loss ! 
CHARLOTTE  FISKE  BATES  (1879). 


TO   THE   AVON. 

Flow  on,  sweet  river !  like  his  verse 
Who  lies  beneath  this  sculptured  hearse ; 
Nor  wait  beside  the  churchyard  wall 
For  him  who  cannot  hear  thy  call. 

Thy  playmate  once ;  I  see  him  now 
A  boy  with  sunshine  on  his  brow, 
And  hear  in  Stratford's  quiet  street 
The  patter  of  his  little  feet. 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  187 

I  see  him  by  thy  shallow  edge 
Wading  knee-deep  amid  the  sedge ; 
And  lost  in  thought,  as  if  thy  stream 
Were  the  swift  river  of  a  dream. 

He  wonders  whitherward  it  flows; 
And  fain  would  follow  where  it  goes, 
To  the  wide  world,  that  shall  erelong 
Be  filled  with  his  melodious  song. 

Flow  on,  fair  stream  !     That  dream  is  o'er ; 
He  stands  upon  another  shore ; 
A  vaster  river  near  him  flows, 
And  still  he  follows  where  it  goes. 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


A  WORD   FOR  SHAKESPEARE. 

When  hawthorn  hedges,  foaming  white, 
Were  sweet  with  mimic  snowing, 

He  first  beheld  the  April  light 
And  heard  the  Avon  flowing. 


1 88  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Like  other  children,  then  as  now, 
The  olden  summers  found  him, 

He  laughed  and  cried,  and  knit  his  brow. 
And  ruled  the  world  around  him ! 

Still  was  he  wiser  than  they  knew — 
This  child,  the  straw-thatch  under, 

Whose  song  three  hundred  years  ago 
Yet  makes  the  wide  world  wonder ! 

A  child,  from  croon  of  cradle  hymn 
Above  him  in  his  slumbers, — 

A  youth,  along  the  Avon's  rim 
He  caught  his  tuneful  numbers. 

Full  poet-souled  the  shy  boy  grew 
To  manhood's  ripe  completeness ; 

What  Nature  taught  he  quickly  knew — 
Her  wondrous  lore  and  sweetness. 

The  years  so  fraught  with  weary  toil 
Were  gladdened  by  his  singing, 

For  well  he  heard  through  life's  turmoil 
Serenest  music  ringing ; 


TRIBUTES    TO   SHAKESPEARE.  189 

As  everywhere  the  world- wide  throng 
To-day  who  know  and  love  him, 

Through  his  can  hear  the  lark's  sweet  song, 
That  soared  and  sang  above  him. 

Where'er  he  turned  his  eager  feet, 
Her  smile  o'er  him  was  leaning, 

He  felt  the  heart  of  Nature  beat, 
And  learned  its  hidden  meaning. 

What  golden  wealth  from  her  he  brought — 
Her  heir  by  this  sweet  token — 

A  power  to  clothe  the  hidden  thought 
That  else  had  been  unspoken. 

What  marvel  that  the  race  to-day 

Toward  him  is  fondly  turning, 
Who  gave  its  hope  a  tongue  for  aye 

To  tell  its  deathless  yearning  ? 

All  changing  moods  of  being's  state, 

Life's  sad  or  sunny  fancies, 
The  smile  of  love,  the  scowl  of  hate, 

Affection's  sweet  romances, 


IQO  TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE. 

He  holds  embalmed  in  wondrous  art — 

A  lore  beyond  the  sages — 
The  wildest  passions  of  the  heart, 

The  tenderest  love-lit  pages. 

Grand  builder  in  the  realm  of  thought ! 

Through  his  wide-swinging  portals, 
Behold  the  fane  his  fancy  wrought, 

And  peopled  with  immortals ! 

The  king  of  bards  he  stands  revealed, 

By  very  grace  of  giving, — 
What  hidden  founts  hath  he  unsealed, 

And  poured  for  all  the  living! 

His  fame  and  song  ring  evermore 
Above  the  centuries'  thunders  ; — 

Though  dead  three  hundred  years  and  more, 
Yet  still  the  wide  world  wonders ! 

BENJ.  F.  LEGGETT  (1880). 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  191 

SHAKESPEARE. 

On  fabled  California's  flowery  strand 

There  stands,  great  girthed  and  piercing  to 

the  sun, 
A  tree  before,  whose  front  the  gods  might  stand 

A-tremble  at  the  sign  of  Mightier  One ; 
Within  whose  tunneled  trunk,  'neath  emerald 

spires, 

The  Indian  shapes  his  flints  and  fans  his  fires, 
And  coyotes  creep,  and  horse  and  rider  chase, 
Through  ceaseless  cycles  of  the  human  race. 
The  fool  will  sneer  if  you  the  story  tell, 
The  wise  man  worship — marvels  please   him 

well. 
So  thou,  perennial  Shakespeare,  aye  must  stand 

The  mightiest  marvel  of  the  human  mind ! 
Let   maundering   nomads   mar  with   axe  and 

brand ; 

Pause,  master  spirits  :  here  your  master  find ! 
KATE  BROWNLEE  SHERWOOD. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 


SHAKESPEARE. 

O  Poet,  thou  wast  like  a  flower 
That  opened  in  the  sun  and  shower 

Beside  the  way, 

Though  trodden  on  by  careless  feet, 
Still  ever  through  the  dust  and  heat, 
Turned  upward  to  the  skies  to  greet 

The  perfect  day. 

O  Poet,  thou  wast  like  a  lark 
That  slumbers  in  the  dew  and  dark 

Through  all  the  night ; 
The  dreaming  world  below  him  lies ; 
He  meets  the  morn,  he  mounts  the  skies, 
And  sings  himself  to  Paradise, 

The  heaven  of  light. 

MINNA  IRVING  (1880). 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  193 


POET    AND    ACTRESS. 

When  Avon's  Bard  his  sweetest  music  scored, 
A  woman's  vision  with  the  numbers  blent ; 
Each  to  the  other  equal  beauty  lent 

As  weaving  fancy  robed  the  form  adored. 

O  Poet,  didst  thou  see  upon  the  board 
Eye-filling  Rosalind,  whose  playful  bent 
Suffused  thy  lines  ?    Juliet,  all  passion-spent  ? 

Viola's  sweet  self,  and  Imogen's  restored  ? 

'Twas  thine  to  give  the  music-mated  lines, 
But  Heaven  alone  empowers  the  counterpart 

To  walk  in  splendor  where  such  genius  shines. 
Thrice  happy  we,  blest  heirs  of  dual  art, 

To  own  as  mother-tongue  Will  Shakespeare's 
writ, 

To  live  when  kindling  Neilson  voices  it. 

CLARENCE  CLOUGH  BUEL. 
(Century  Magazine,  1880.) 


IQ4  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 


SHAKESPEARE. 

Out  of  a  richly  storied,  far-off  time, 

Sounding  through  centuries  of  echoing  years, 
One  voice,  above  all  voices,  fills  our  ears. 
Clear  over  all  ring  out  its  tones  sublime 
In  stately  verse,  oft  laughing  into  rhyme, 
Stirring  our  hearts  to  gladness  or  to  tears 
With  trooping  images  of  hopes  and  fears. 
As  full  it  sounds  to-day  as,  in  its  prime, 

It  filled  with  melody  a  golden  age ; 
Nor  hath  it  lost  one  charm  or  wizard  spell 
To  wake  the  passions,  or  their  fury  quell — 

O  sweet  enchanter,  O  magician  sage, 
Still  o'er  each  living  age  employ  thy  arts, 
Charming  to  thy  remembrance  human  hearts ! 

WILLIAM  LEIGHTON. 
November,  1883. 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  195 

MANKIND'S    HIGHEST. 

A  dream  enticed  the  Spirit  of  the  Earth 
And  as  in  sleep,  fantastic  shapes  he  chased ; 
The  Hours  slumbered,  and  the  Laws  delayed. 
When  he  awoke,  behold  !   man's  puny  race 
He  found  had  in  the  fleeting  interval 
Expired  as  silently  as  bubbles  burst. 
A  smile  of  pity  crossed  the  Spirit's  lips ; 
"  To  think  the  weaklings,  if  I  nodded,  died ! 
But,  after  all,"  he  said,  "  the  tiny  imps 
Have  startled  from  me  many  a  hearty  laugh. 
My  time  would  drag  could  I  no  longer  see 
The  shifting  scenes  of  Human  Comedy." 

So  men  he  made  anew :  and  that  the  new 
Might  differ  nowise  from  the  elder  breed, 
He  hunted  'mid  the  ruins  of  the  past, 
A  book  wherein  true  types  of  men  are  drawn. 
And  from  these  patterns  he  refilled  the  globe. 
Upon  that  book,  O  Shakespeare,  was  thy  name. 
WM.  ROSCOE  THAYER. 


196  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

THE    POET'S    MONTH. 

When  April  comes,  like  tearful,  timorous  nymph 
Escaping  from  the  stormy  grasp  of  March, 
'Tis  not  alone  for  summer  harbingers 
And  mildness  after  winter's-  harsher  days 
We  hail  the  gentle  month.     It  hath  a  grace, 
A  fair  inheritance  that  hath  come  down 
The  busy,  perilous,  and  changeful  years, 
Bringing  a  better  boon  than  gold  to  us ; 
It  is  our  poet's  month.     On  a  spring  day, 
"  A  day  in  April  never  came  so  sweet "  * 
And  goodly  in  its  golden  promises 
As  that  whereon  in  England's  heart  upsprung 
A  seed  whose  fruitfulness  hath  brought  great 

store 

Of  all  men's  blessings ;  made  its  parent  soil 
Forever  glorious, 

On  a  sweet  day  of  spring  was  Shakespeare  born, 
Our  Shakespeare ;  for  his  tongue,  his  fame  are 

ours ; 
*  "  Merchant  of  Venice,"  ii.,  9,  93. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  197 

Nor  can  the  island  of  his  birth  fold  in 
His  fame  that  overlaps  the  bounds  of  oceans, 
Reaching  remotest  corners  of  the  earth. 
Still  for  that  day  of  old  we  love  thee,  April, 
And  if  thou  hast  been  called  injurious  names, 
We  will  forget  them  ;  and  thou  shalt  not  be 
To  us,  for  that  one  birth,  a  "  spongy  April ;"  * 
But  ever  in  thy  changeful  skies  shall  shine 
The  ancient  "glory  of  an  April  day."  f 
The  young  year  loves  thee,  and  most  maidenly 
Reflects  thy  changefulness,  all  smiles  and  tears, 
Both  happy :  for  she  has  not  learned  the  woes 
The  dark  November  of  her  life  may  bring ; 
"  The  April's  in  her  eyes  ;  it  is  love's  spring ;"  J 
And  love  lends  "  spices  to  the  April  day."  § 
Her  small,  swift  bounding  foot,  "  whose  perfect 

white 
Shows  like  an  April  daisy  on  the  grass,"  || 

*  "  Tempest,"  iv.,  i,  65. 

f  "  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,"  i.,  3,  85. 

t  "  Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  iii.,  2,  43. 

§  "  Timon  of  Athens,"  iv.,  3,  41.     |  "  Lucrece,"  395. 


198  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Flashes  before  us  as  the  nymph  flies  on 
"Where  proud-pied   April   dress'd  in   all  his 

trim,"  * 

"Three  April  perfumes"  t  in  his  waving  locks, 
Catches  her  eye,  enticing  her  light  steps 
To  come  and  dance  away  the  merry  hours 
"  'Twixt  May  and  April."  t 
Bright  month !   thy  poet  loved  thee ;  and  thy 

freshness 
Breathes  pleasantness  and  joy  in  his   sweet 

verse, 
And  perfume  that  "  smells  April,"  §  lovesome- 

ness 

That  cries  how  "  men  are  April  when  they  woo."  || 
So  "youthful  April  shall,"  1  by  all  the  lovers 
Of  him  who  sung  its  charm,  be  often  blessed 
For  his  sweet  songs  ;  and,  in  the  years  to  come, 
"  When  well-apparelled  April  on  the  heel 

*  Sonnet  xcviii.,  2.  f  Sonnet  civ.,  7. 

J  "  Lover's  Complaint,"  cii. 

§  "  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  iii.,  2,  69. 

1  "As  You  Like  It,"  iv.,  I,  147. 

*[[  "  Titus  Andronicus,"  iii.,  i,  18. 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  199 

Of  limping  Winter  treads,"  *  'twill  bring  re- 
membrance 

Of  poesy,  "  a  man  in  April  born  ;"  f 
And  to  the  beauty  "  peering  in  April's  front  "  $ 
Give  added  grace.     Nor  must  we  blame  his 

month 

That  not  "  fourscore  of  April "  §  birthdays  came 
To  cheer  the  world  with  golden  years  of  verse ; 
Nor  that  in  "  April  died  "||  his  heart  of  song ; 
Died  !    Nay  :    his  song,  his  soul  of  poesy, 
His  grandeur,  and  his  sweetness  have  not  died ; 
But  live  immortal  in  his  deathless  verse, 
Victors  of  time,  and  death,  and  accident ; 
Making  the  world  more  happy,  noble,  wise ; 
Stirring  in  every  heart  harmonious  strings, 
Divinest  music  of  the  human  soul ; 
In  which  thy  bard,  O  April,  shall  live  on 
While  men  recall  the  past,  and  have  the  gift 

*  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  i.,  2,  27. 
f  "  Troilus  and  Cressida,"  i.,  2,  189. 
J  "  Winter's  Tale,"  iv.,  4,  3. 
§  "Winter's  Tale,"  iv.,  4,  280. 
I  "  King  John,"  iv. ,  2,  120. 


200  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

To  feel,  beyond  the  brutes,  gay  springtime's 

promises, 

Celestial  hopes  transfiguring  earthly  things ; 
While  Age,  with  memories  of  full  ripe  years, 
"  Calls  back  the  lovely  April  of  its  prime  "  * 
Or  Youth  rejoices  in  its  best  delights, 
"  With  April's  first-born  flowers  and  all  things 

rare."  t 

WILLIAM  LEIGHTON. 

[These  verses,  written  in  1884,  contain  in  quo- 
tation every  allusion  Shakespeare  has  made  in  his 
plays  and  poems  to  the  month  of  his  birth.] 


SHAKESPEARE, 
i. 

His  soul  was  like  a  palace  wrought  of  glass, 
Star-stained  and  many-sided,  and  full-fraught 
With  all  the  fairest  flowers  of  human  thought, 

Outspread  in  one  immeasurable  mass, — 

*  Sonnet  in.,  10.  f  Sonnet  xxi.,  7. 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  2OI 

A  garden  of  enravishments,  where  pass 
The  rapt  creations  that  his  fancy  caught 
From  realms  of  being  hitherto  unsought, 
Or  feebly  sought,  or  fruitlessly,  alas  ! 
He  peered  thro'  nature  with  a  prophet's  ken, 
He  pierced  her  secrets  with  a  poet's  eye, — 
With  passion,  power,  and  high  philosophy, 

He  set  the  spirit's  inner-gates  apart ; 
He  stripped  the  shackles  from  the  souls  of 

men, 

And  sacked   the   fortress   of  the   human 
heart. 

IT. 

The  perfect  model  of  the  perfect  mind  ! 

Within  the  spheric  fullness  of  his  sense, 

Within  his  kingly  soul's  circumference, 
The  image  of  the  universe  was  shrined ; 
In  lofty  utterance,  his  tongue  outlined 

The  golden  orb  of  all  intelligence ; 

He  touched  the  circle  of  omnipotence, 
Defining  things  no  other  ere  defined. 


202  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

God  made  but  one !  the  rack  of  centuries, 
The  rolling  chariot  of  resistless  years, 
Leaves  unbedimmed  the  amaranth  he  wears ; 
His  fame  is  co-eternal  with  the  skies, 
His  words  are  fadeless  as  our  memories, 
His  influence  as  deathless  as  our  tears. 

JAMES  NEWTON  MATTHEWS  (1884). 


A    VISION    OF    LOSS. 

Sitting  alone,  there  came  to  me  a  thought 
The  merest  fancy  of  my  musing  brain, 
That  stabbed  me  like  a  sharp  and  sudden 
pain,— 

What    if   our   Shakespeare  had  not   lived   or 
wrought ! 

How  strange  a  world  !  bereft  of  him  who  taught 
Mankind  to  know  itself.     And  I  was  fain 
To  measure  the  huge  loss :  thereon  a  train 

Of  figures  passed  me,  and  a  vision  I  caught 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  203 

Of  musing  Hamlet,  and  the  majesty 

Of  discrowned  Lear,  the    Fool  who   loved 
him  well, 

Shades  of  great  ancients,  Brutus,  Antony, 

The  Prince  and  Falstaff,  loving  Romeo, 
The  tricky  Puck  and  nimble  Ariel, 

And  mightiest  conjurer  !    poet  Prospero. 


All  these  had  slowly  vanished  from  my  ken, 
When,    following,    appeared    a     beauteous 

band 
Of  maids   and  matrons,  joining  hand  with 

hand, 

Led  by  the  pearl  of  women,  Imogen. 
Mild  Hermione  after  came,  and  then 
Titania,  summer  queen  of  fairy-land, 
With  Portia,  Rosalind,  and  her  who  planned 
For  love  a  rescue  from  the  spite  of  men ; 
Miranda,  Viola, — sweet  sisterhood 
As    wise    as    fair,    as    fair    and    wise    as 
good; 


204  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Whose  names  are  linked  as  in  a  garland  rare 
Blown  rose   and  bud  are  joined  without  a 
thorn, — 

These,  too,  all  melted  into  air,  thin  air, 
And  left  me  mourning  as  one  all  forlorn. 

M.  L.  HENRY. 
(Literary  World,  1884.) 


SHAKESPEARE. 

Working  as  erst  by  law,  not  miracle, 
By  genius  God  doth  lift  a  common  soul 
To  some  still  spot  where  it  may  glimpse  the 
goal; 

Bidding  it  on  the  mountain  heights  to  dwell, 

Yet  not  so  far  apart  but  it  may  tell 

To  toilers  in  the  plain  below,  the  whole 
Of  the  vision. — Master,  still  the  organ-roll 

Of  thy  deep  music  vibrates,  and  its  spell 

Aids  the  uplift  that  stirs  our  grosser  clay 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  205 

To  rise  and  seek  the  heights.    O  soul  God  set 
A  little  lower  than  his  white  angels,  yet 
A  round  for  man  to  climb  the  starward  way 
Thou  art.     One  palm  with  angels  long  since 

met, 

The  other  warm  in  man's  grasp  still  doth  stay. 
ALICE  WILLIAMS  BROTHERTON. 


THE    DEAD    LION. 

Only  a  player ;  and  his  ancestry 

Derived  from  yeoman  sires — From  such  a 

line 
How     could     there     spring     an     intellect 

divine  ? 
Shakespeare  ?      Ah,  no  ! — no  mighty  soul  was 

he; 

In  Bacon,  Raleigh,  the  true  Shakespeares  see. 
Doth  light  of  genius  fall  on  earth  to  shine 
On  low-born   lives?     Would  Heaven,  with 

large  design, 
Godlike  endow  one  of  the  yeomanry  ? 


206  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Thus  chatter  they  who  to  the  mystery 
Of  a  great  soul  would  find  a  brazen  key ; 

Or  figure  poesy  up  like  a  paltry  sum. 

So  when  a  lion  dies  base  jackals  come, 

To  rend  the  kingly,  and  make  hideous  night, 
With  obscure  howling  o'er  his  fallen  might. 

WILLIAM  LEIGHTON. 
July,  1884. 


THE   NAMES. 

Shakespeare  ! — To  such  name's  sounding,  what 

succeeds 

Fitly  as  silence  !     Falter  forth  the  spell, — 
Act  follows  word,  the  speaker  knows  full  well, 
Nor  tampers  with  its  magic  more  than  needs. 
Two  names  there  are  :  That  which  the  Hebrew 

reads 

With  his  soul  only ;  if  from  lips  it  fell, 
Echo,  back  thundered  by  earth,  heaven,  and 

hell, 

Would  own  "  Thou  didst  create  us  !"     Nought 
impedes, 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  207 

We   voice    the    other    name,   man's    most    of 

might, 
Awesomely,  lovingly :  let  awe  and  love 

Mutely  await  their  working,  leave  to  sight 
All  of  the  issue  as — below — above — 
Shakespeare's  creation  rises  :  one  remove, 

Though  dread — this  finite  from  that  infinite. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 
March  12,  1884. 

[Mr.  Browning  wrote  this  sonnet  for  the  "  Shak- 
sperean  Show-Book/'  issued  in  connection  with 
the  Shakespeare  Show,  held  in  London  in  1884, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  Chelsea  Hospital.  The 
contributions  were  for  charity's  sake,  and  consist 
of  songs,  poems,  musical  compositions,  pictures, 
programmes,  and  fac-simile  autographs.  It  is  an 
interesting  volume,  and  a  valuable  souvenir  of  the 
Show,  for  which  it  served  as  a  handbook.  Com- 
plete lists  of  the  tableaux  and  Shakespearian  relics 
on  exhibition  are  included  in  it.] 


2C>8  TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE. 

THE   MODERN    RHYMER. 

i. 

Now  you  who  rhyme,  and  I  who  rhyme, 
Have  we  not  sworn  it,  many  a  time — 
That  we  no  more  our  verse  would  scrawl 
For  Shakspere  he  had  said  it  all ! 
And  yet  whatever  others  see 
The  world  is  fresh  to  you  and  me — 
And  birds  that  sing,  and  winds  that  blow, 
And  flowers  that  make  the  country  glow, 
And  lusty  swains,  and  maidens  bright, 
And  clouds  by  day,  and  stars  by  night ; 
And  all  the  pictures  in  the  skies 
That  passed  before  Will  Shakspere's  eyes, 
Love,  hate,  and  scorn — frost,  fire,  and  flower- 
On  us  as  well  as  him  have  power. 
Go  to — our  spirits  shall  not  be  laid, 
Silenced  and  smothered  by  a  shade. 
Avon  is  not  the  only  stream 
Can  make  a  poet  sing  and  dream ; 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  209 

Nor  are  those  castles,  queens,  and  kings 
The  height  of  sublunary  things. 

ii. 

Beneath  the  false  moon's  pallid  glare, 

By  the  cool  fountain  in  the  square 

(This  gray-green  dusty  square  that's  set 

Where  two  gigantic  highways  met) 

We  hear  a  music  strange  and  new, 

Will  Shakspere,  was  not  known  to  you ! 

You  saw  the  new  world's  sun  arise, 

High  up  it  shines  in  our  own  skies. 

You  saw  the  ocean  from  the  shore, 

Through  mid  -  seas  now  our  ship  doth 
roar — 

A  wild,  new,  teeming  world  of  men 

That  wakens  in  the  poet's  brain 

Thoughts  that  were  never  thought  be- 
fore— 

Of  hope,  and  longing,  and  despair ; 

Wherein  man's  never  resting  race 

Westward,  still  westward,  on  doth  fare, 
14 


210  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Doth  still  subdue,  and  still  aspire, 

Or  turning  on  itself  doth  face 

Its  own  indomitable  fire  — 

O  million-centuried  thoughts  that  make 

The  Past  seem  but  a  shallop's  wake ! 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


TO   MODJESKA  AS   ROSALIND. 

When    from    the    poet's    brain    fair   Arden's 

glades 
Were  peopled  with  the  lightsome  folk  we 

know, 

A  shade  of  discontent  was  seen  to  grow 
Upon  his  brow,  as  he  through  long  decades 
In  vision  saw  this  loveliest  of  his  maids 
By  beardless  boys  enacted,  and  her  show 
Of  maiden  grace  obscured  and  hidden  so 
In   guise    of  youths    half   won    from    boyish 
trades. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  211 

Soon  changed  the  vision  and  through  centu- 
ries far 

A  group  of  women  fair  he  then  did  see, 
Whose  hearts,  one  after  other,  were  beguiled 

By  some  Orlando's  youth  and  bravery, 
And  in  the  throng,  and  radiant  as  a  star, 

On  thee,  the  mighty  master,  looking,  smiled ! 

OSCAR  FAY  ADAMS. 
November,  1884. 


EPIGRAM. 

"  How  weak  are  words — to  carry  thoughts  like 

mine  !" 
Saith  each  dull  daughter  round  the  much  bored 

Nine. 
Yet  words  sufficed  for  Shakespeare's  suit,  when 

he 
Woo'd  Time,,  and  won  instead  Eternity. 

WILLIAM  WATSON  (1884). 


212  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

SHAKESPEARE'S   SONNETS. 

(TO   THE   OVER-CURIOUS.) 

[Good  frend  for  lesus  sake  forbeare 
To  digg  the  dvst  encloased  heare 
Bleste  be  the  man  that  spares  these  stones 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones.] 

These  living  stones  hide  most  mysterious  dust; 
The  curse  and  blessing  that  so  guard  his  grave 
Seem  flashing,  somehow,  from  their  blinding 

light. 

Let  what  he  willed  lie  in  the  heart  of  night ; 
Dig  not  for  earthly  things  of  love  or  lust 
Beneath  the  deathless  beauty  that  they  have. 

CHARLOTTE  FISKE  BATES. 

(Century  Magazine,  July,  1885.) 


WITH   A   COPY   OF  SHAKESPEARE. 

This  is  the  deep  profound  that  imports  man ; 
His  shoals,  his  rapids,  all  are  chartered  here ; 
There  is  no  joy  of  voyage,  and  no  fear 
That  is  not  bodied  in  this  mighty  plan. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  213 

He  knew  where  the  sweet  springs  of  love  be- 
gan, 
^And  whence  the  fires  of  hate  and  horror 

peer, 

What  wakens  merriment,  and  how  appear 
The  raging  passions  that  bewitch  and  ban. 
Herein  behold  how  nobly  souls  may  mount, 
How  basely  fall ;  and  see  as  well  how  sweet 
The  common  rill  of  human  life  may  run. 
It  is  at  once  the  ocean  and  the  fount ; 
The  compass  of  our  triumph  and  defeat ; 
The  heart  of  earth,  the  splendor  of  the  sun. 
CHARLES  GOODRICH  WHITING  (1885). 


THE   SERMON   OF   A  STATUE. 
(!N  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.) 

Suddenly,  in  the  melancholy  place 

With  sculptured  king  and  priest  and  knight 

assembled, 
The  music  called  us.    Then,  with  kindly  grace, 

On  a  gold  head  was  laid  a  hand  that  trembled  : 


214  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

"You  little  stranger,  come,"  the  verger  cried, 
"  And  hear  the  sermon."     "  No,"  the  child  re- 
plied. 

A  moment  standing  on  his  new-world  will, 
There  in  the  Corner  of  the  Poets,  holding 

His  cap  with  pretty  reverence,  as  still 
As  any  of  that  company,  he  said,  folding 

His  arms :    "  But  let  that  canon  wait."     And 
then, 

"  I  want  to  stay  here  with  these  marble  men. 

"  If  they  could  preach,  I'd  listen  !"     Ah,  they 

can, 
Another  thought.     It   pleased   the   boy  to 

linger 
In  the  pale  presence  of  the  peerless  man, 

Who  pointed  to  his  text  with  moveless  finger. 
Laughing  with    blue-eyed    wonder,   he    said : 

"  Look, 
This    one  (but    do   you   know   him  ?)  has    a 

book !" 


TRIBUTES    TO   SHAKESPEARE.  215 

...  I  know  him.     Ay,  and  all  the  world  knows 

him, — 

Among  the  many  poets  the  one  only ! 
On  that  high  head  the  stained  gloom  was  dim ; 
In  those  fixed  eyes  the  look  of  gods  was 

lonely. 

Kings  at  his  feet,  to  whom  his  hand  gave  fame, 
Lay,    dust   and    ashes,    shining    through    his 
name. 

I  heard  him.     With  the  still  voice  of  the  dead 
From  that  stone  page,  right  careless  of  de- 
rision, 
Sad  jesters  of  a  faithless  age  !  he  read 

How  the  great  globe  would  vanish  like  a 

vision, 

With  all  that  it  inhabit.  .  .  .  And  hath  he 
Then  writ  but  one  word,  and  that — Vanity? 
S.  M.  B.  PIATT  (1886). 


2l6  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

WRITTEN   IN   A  VOLUME   OF   SHAKE- 
SPEARE. 

Between  these  covers  a  fair  country  lies, 

Which,    though     much     traversed,     always 

seemeth  new ; 
Far,  mountain  peaks  of  Thought  reach  to 

the  blue ; 

While  placid  meadows  please  less  daring  eyes 
Deep  dells  and  ivied  walls  where  daylight  dies 
Tell  of  Romance,  and  lovers  brush  the  dew 
By  moonlit  stream  and  lake,  while  never  few 
Are  the  rich  bursts  of  song  that  shake  the 
skies. 

This  country's  king  holds  never-ending  court; 

To  him  there  come  from  all  his  wide  domain 
Minstrels  of  love  and  spangled  imps  of  sport, 

And  messengers  of  fancy,  joy,  and  pain  ; 
Of  man  and  nature,  he  has  full  report ; 

He  made  his   kingdom,   none   dispute   his 

reign. 

CHARLES  H.  CRANDALL. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  217 


AFTER    READING    SHAKESPEARE. 

Blithe  fancy  lightly  builds  with  airy  hands, 
Or  on  the  edges  of  the  darkness  peers, 
Breathless  and  frightened  at  the  Voice  she 

hears : 
Imagination  (lo  !  the  sky  expands) 

Travels  the  blue  arch  and  Cimmerian  sands, — 
Homeless  on  earth,  the  pilgrim  of  the  spheres, 
The  rush  of  light  before  the  hurrying  years, 
The  Voice  that  cries  in  unfamiliar  lands. 

Men  weigh  the  moons  that  flood  with  eerie  light 
The  dusky  vales  of  Saturn — wood  and  stream, 
But  who  shall  follow  on  the  awful  sweep 

Of  Neptune   through   the   dim    and    dreadful 

deep  ? 

Onward  he  wanders  in  the  unknown  night, 
And  we  are  shadows  moving  in  a  dream. 
C.  E.  MARKHAM  (1887). 


2l8  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

THECHILDS   FOUNTAIN   AT   STRAT- 
FORD-ON-AVON. 
Welcome,  thrice  welcome  is  thy  silvery  gleam, 

Thou  long  imprisoned  stream  ! 
Welcome  the  tinkle  of  thy  crystal  beads, 
As  plashing  raindrops  to  the  flowery  meads, 
As  summer's  breath  to  Avon's  whispering  reeds  ! 
From  rock-walled  channels,  drowned  in  rayless 

night, 

Leap  forth  to  life  and  light ; 
Wake  from  the  darkness  of  thy  troubled  dream, 
And  greet  with  answering  smile  the  morning's 
beam  ! 

No  purer  lymph  the  white-limbed  Naiad  knows 

Than  from  thy  chalice  flows ; 
Not  the  bright  spring  of  Afric's  sunny  shores, 
Starry  with  spangles  washed  from  golden  ores, 
Nor  glassy  stream  Blandusia's  fountain  pours, 
Nor  wave  translucent  where  Sabrina  fair 

Braids  her  loose-flowing  hair, 
Nor  the  swift  current,  stainless  as  it  rose, 
Where  chill  Arveiron  steals  from  Alpine  snows. 


TRIBUTES   TO   SHAKESPEARE.  219 

Here  shall  the  traveller  stay  his  weary  feet 

To  seek  thy  calm  retreat ; 
Here  at  high  noon  the  brown-armed  reaper  rest ; 
Here,  when  the  shadows,  lengthening  from  the 

west, 

Call  the  mute  song-bird  to  his  leafy  nest, 
Matron  and  maid  shall  chat  the  cares  away 

That  brooded  o'er  the  day, 
While  flocking  round  them  troops  of  children 

meet, 
And  all  the  arches  ring  with  laughter  sweet. 

Here  shall  the  steed,  his  patient  life  who  spends, 

In  toil  that  never  ends, 

Hot  from  his  thirsty  tramp  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
Plunge  his  red  nostrils,  while  the  torturing  rein 
Drops  in  loose  loops  beside  his  floating  mane ; 
Nor  the  poor  brute  that  shares  his  master's  lot — 

Find  his  small  needs  forgot — 
Truest  of  humble,  long-enduring  friends, 
Whose  presence  cheers,  whose  guardian  care 
defends  ! 


220  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Here  lark  and  thrush  and  nightingale  shall  sip, 

And  skimming  swallows  dip, 
And  strange  shy  wanderers  fold  their  lustrous 

plumes, 
Fragrant   from   bowers  that  lent  their  sweet 

perfumes 

Where  Paestum's  rose  or  Persia's  lilac  blooms ; 
Here  from  his  cloud  the  eagle  stoop  to  drink 

At  the  full  basin's  brink, 
And  whet  his  beak  against  its  rounded  lip, 
His  glossy  feathers  glistening  as  they  drip. 

Here  shall  the  dreaming  poet  linger  long, 
Far  from  his  listening  throng — 

Nor  lute  nor  lyre  his  trembling  hand  shall  bring ; 

Here  no  frail  Muse  shall  imp  her  crippled  wing, 

No  faltering  minstrel  strain  his  throat  to  sing ! 

These  hallowed  echoes  who  shall  dare  to  claim 
Whose  tuneless  voice  would  shame, 

Whose  jangling  chords  with  jarring  notes  would 
wrong 

The  nymphs  that  heard  the  Swan  of  Avon's  song  ? 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  221 

What  visions  greet  the  pilgrim's  raptured  eyes  ! 

What  ghosts  made  real  rise  ! 
The  dead  return — they  breathe — they  live  again, 
Joined  by  the  host  of  Fancy's  airy  train, 
Fresh  from  the  springs  of  Shakespeare's  quick- 
ening brain ! 
The  stream  that  slakes  the  soul's  diviner  thirst 

Here  found  the  sunbeams  first ; 
Rich  with  his  fame,  not  less  shall  memory  prize 
The  gracious  gift  that  humbler  wants  supplies. 

O'er  the  wide  waters  reached  the  hand  that  gave 

To  all  this  bounteous  wave, 
With  health  and  strength  and  joyous  beauty 

fraught ; 
Blest   be   the  generous  pledge  of  friendship, 

brought 

From  the  far  home  of  brother's  love,  unbought ! 
Long  may  fair  Avon's  fountain  flow,  enrolled 

With  storied  shrines  of  old, 
Castalia's  spring,  Egeria's  dewy  cave, 
And  Horeb's  rock  the  god  of  Israel  clave ! 


222  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Land  of  our  Fathers,  ocean  makes  us  two, 

But  heart  to  heart  is  true ! 
Proud  is  your  towering  daughter  in  the  West, 
Yet  in  her  burning  life-blood  reign  confest 
Her  mother's  pulses  beating  in  her  breast. 
This  holy  fount,  whose  rills  from  heaven  de- 
scend, 

Its  gracious  drops  shall  lend — 
Both  foreheads  bathed  in  that  baptismal  dew, 
And  love  make  one  the  old  home  and  the  new  ! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


[Dr.  Holmes's  poem,  written  for  the  dedication 
of  the  fountain  given  by  Mr.  G.  W.  Childs,  of 
Philadelphia,  to  Stratford-on-Avon,  October  17, 
1887,  was  read  by  Mr.  Henry  Irving;  and  the 
occasion  was  honored,  also,  by  an  address  from 
Mr.  James  Russell  Lowell.] 


-TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  223 

HAMLET  AT   THE    BOSTON. 

We  sit  before  the  row  of  evening  lamps, 

Each  in  his  chair, 
Forgetful  of  November  dews  and  damps, 

And  wintry  air. 

A  little  gulf  of  music  intervenes, 

A  bridge  of  sighs, 
Where  still  the  cunning  of  the  curtain  screens 

Art's  paradise. 

My  thought  transcends  these  viols'  shrill  delight, 

The  booming  bass. 
And  towards  the  regions  we  shall  view  to  night 

Makes  hurried  pace. 

The  painted  castle,  and  the  unneeded  guard, 

That  ready  stand ; 

The   harmless   Ghost,  that   walks   with   helm 
unbarred 

And  beckoning  hand. 


224  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

And,  beautiful  as  dreams  of  maidenhood, 

That  doubt  defy, 
Young  Hamlet,  with  his  forehead  grief-subdued 

And  visioning  eye. 

O  fair  dead  world,  that  from  thy  grave  awak'st 

A  little  while, 
And  in  our  heart  strange  revolution  mak'st 

With  thy  brief  smile  ! 

O  beauties  vanished,  fair  lips  magical, 

Heroic  braves  ! 
O  mighty  hearts,  that  held  the  world  in  thrall ! 

Come  from  your  graves  ! 

The  poet  sees  you  through  a  mist  of  tears, — 

Such  depths  divide 
Him,  with  the  love  and  passion  of  his  years 

From  you,  inside ! 

The  poet's  heart  attends  your  buskined  feet, 

Your  lofty  strains, 

Till  earth's  rude  touch  dissolves  that  madness 
sweet, 

And  life  remains : 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  225 

Life  that  is  something,  while  the  senses  heed 

The  spirit's  call ; 
Life  that  is  nothing,  when  our  grosser  need 

Ingulfs  it  all. 

And  thou,  young  hero  of  this  mimic  scene, 

In  whose  high  breast 
A  genius  greater  than  thy  life  hath  been 

Strangely  comprest ! 

Wear'st  thou  those  glories  draped  about  thy  soul 

Thou  dost  present  ? 
And  art  thou  by  their  feeling  and  control 

Thus  eloquent  ? 

'Tis  with  no  feigned  power  thou  bind'st  our 
sense, 

No  shallow  art ; 
Sure,  lavish  Nature  gave  thee  heritance 

Of  Hamlet's  heart ! 

Thou  dost  control  our  fancies  with  a  might 

So  wild,  so  fond, 
We  quarrel,  passed  thy  circle  of  delight, 

With  things  beyond ; 


226  TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Returning  to  the  pillows  rough  with  care. 

And  vulgar  food, 
Sad  from  the  breath  of  that  diviner  air, 

That  loftier  mood. 

And  there  we  leave  thee,  in  thy  misty  tent 

Watching  alone ; 
While  foes  about  thee  gather  imminent 

To  us  scarce  known. 

Oh,  when  the  lights  are  quenched,  the  music 

hushed, 

The  plaudits  still, 
Heaven   keep   the  fountain,  whence  the  fair 

stream  gushed, 
From  choking  ill ! 

Let  Shakspeare's  soul,  that  wins  the  world  from 
wrong, 

For  thee  avail, 
And  not  one  holy  maxim  of  his  song 

Before  thee  fail ! 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  227 

So  get  thee  to  thy  couch  as  unreproved 

As  heroes  blest ; 
And  all  good  angels,  trusted  in  and  loved, 

Attend  thy  rest ! 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 


SINCE   CLEOPATRA   DIED. 

"  Since  Cleopatra  died 

I  have  lived  in  such  dishonor,  that  the  world 
Doth  wonder  at  my  baseness." 

"  Since  Cleopatra  died  !"    Long  years  are  past, 

In  Antony's  fancy,  since  the  deed  was  done. 

Love  counts  its  epochs,  not  from  sun  to  sun, 

But  by  the  heart-throb.     Mercilessly  fast 

Time  has  swept  onward  since  she  looked  her 

last 

On  life,  a  queen.     For  him  the  sands  have  run 
Whole  ages  through  their  glass,  and  kings 

have  won 
And  lost  their  empires  o'er  earth's  surface 

vast 


228  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Since  Cleopatra  died.     Ah  !  Love  and  Pain 
Make  their  own  measure  of  all  things  that 

be. 

No  clock's  slow  ticking  marks  their  death- 
less strain ; 

The  life  they  own  is  not  the  life  we  see ; 
Love's  single  moment  is  eternity ; 
Eternity,  a  thought  in  Shakspere's  brain. 
•THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON  (1888). 


ACROSS   THE   FIELDS  TO   ANNE. 

[From  Stratford- on- Avon  a  lane  runs  west- 
ward through  the  fields  a  mile  to  the  little  village 
of  Shottery,  in  which  is  the  cottage  of  Anne 
Hathaway,  Shakespeare's  sweetheart  and  wife.] 

How  often  in  the  summertide, 
His  graver  business  set  aside, 
Has  stripling  Will,  the  thoughtful-eyed, 

As  to  the  pipe  of  Pan 
Stepped  blithesomely  with  lover's  pride 

Across  the  fields  to  Anne  ! 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  229 

It  must  have  been  a  merry  mile, 

This  summer  stroll  by  hedge  and  stile, 

With  sweet  foreknowledge  all  the  while 

How  sure  the  pathway  ran 
To  dear  delights  of  kiss  and  smile, 

Across  the  fields  to  Anne. 

The  silly  sheep  that  graze  to-day, 

I  wot,  they  let  him  go  his  way, 

Nor  once  looked  up,  as  who  should  say : 

"  It  is  a  seemly  man." 
For  many  lads  went  wooing  aye 

Across  the  fields  to  Anne. 

The  oaks,  they  have  a  wiser  look ; 
Mayhap  they  whispered  to  the  brook : 
"  The  world  by  him  shall  yet  be  shook, 

It  is  in  Nature's  plan  ; 
Though  now  he  fleets  like  any  rook 

Across  the  fields  to  Anne." 

And  I  am  sure,  that  on  some  hour 
Coquetting  soft  'twixt  sun  and  shower, 


230  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

He  stooped  and  broke  a  daisy  flower 

With  heart  of  tiny  span, 
And  bore  it  as  a  lover's  dower 

Across  the  fields  to  Anne. 

While  from  her  cottage  garden-bed 
She  plucked  a  jasmine's  goodlihede, 
To  scent  his  jerkin's  brown  instead ; 

Now  since  that  love  began, 
What  luckier  swain  than  he  who  sped 

Across  the  fields  to  Anne  ? 

The  winding  path  whereon  I  pace, 

The  hedgerows  green,  the  summer's  grace, 

Are  still  before  me  face  to  face ; 

Methinks  I  almost  can 
Turn  poet  and  join  the  singing  race 
Across  the  fields  to  Anne ! 

RICHARD  E.  BURTON. 

(Century  Magazine,  1889.) 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  231 

ASHES. 

(Written  in  the    Shakespeare   Church  at  Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon,  August  26,  1889.) 

No  eyes  can  see  man's  destiny  completed 
Save  His,  who  made  and  knows  th'  eternal 

plan  : 

As  shapes  of  cloud  in  mountains  are  repeated, 
So  thoughts   of  God   accomplished    are    in 
man. 

Here  the  divinest  of  all  thoughts  descended ; 

Here  the  sweet  heavens  their  sweetest  boon 

let  fall ; 
Upon  this  hallowed  ground  begun  and  ended 

The  life  that  knew,  and  felt,  and  uttered  all. 

There  is  not  anything  of  human  trial 

That  ever  love  deplored  or  sorrow  knew, 

No  glad  fulfilment  and  no  sad  denial, 

Beyond  the  pictured  truth  that  Shakespeare 
drew. 


232  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

All  things  are  said  and  done,  and  though  for 

ever 
The   streams   dash   onward  and  the  great 

winds  blow, 
There  comes  no  new  thing  in  the  world,  and 

never 
A  voice  like  his,  that  seems  to  make  it  so. 

Take  then  thy  fate,  or  opulent  or  sordid, 
Take  it  and  bear  it,  and  esteem  it  blest ; 

For  of  all  crowns  that  ever  were  awarded 
The  crown  of  simple  patience  is  the  best. 

WILLIAM  WINTER. 
(From  "Gray  Days  and  Gold.") 


GUILIELMUS   REX. 

The  folk  who  lived  in  Shakspere's  day 
And  saw  that  gentle  figure  pass 
By  London  Bridge, — his  frequent  way,- 
They  little  knew  what  man  he  was ! 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  233 

The  pointed  beard,  the  courteous  mien, 
The  equal  port  to  high  and  low, 
All  this  they  saw  or  might  have  seen — 
But  not  the  light  behind  the  brow  ! 

The  doublet's  modest  gray  or  brown, 
The  slender  sword-hilt's  plain  device, 
What  sign  had  these  for  prince  or  clown  ? 
Few  turned,  or  none,  to  scan  him  twice. 

Yet  'twas  the  king  of  England's  kings  ! 
The  rest  with  all  their  pomps  and  trains 
Are  mouldered,  half-remembered  things, — 
'Tis  he  alone,  that  lives  and  reigns ! 

THOMAS  BAILEY^ALDRICH. 
August,  1890. 

THE   PASSING   BELL  AT   STRATFORD. 

Sweet  bell  of  Stratford,  tolling  slow, 
In  summer  gloaming's  golden  glow, 
I  hear  and  feel  thy  voice  divine, 
And  all  my  soul  responds  to  thine. 


234  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

As  now  I  hear  thee,  even  so, 
My  Shakespeare  heard  thee  long  ago, 
When  lone  by  Avon's  pensive  stream 
He  wandered,  in  his  haunted  dream ; 

Heard  thee — and  far  his  fancy  sped 
Through  spectral  caverns  of  the  dead, 
And  strove— and  strove  in  vain— to  pierce 
The  secret  of  the  universe. 

As  now  thou  mournest  didst  thou  mourn 
On  that  sad  day  when  he  was  borne 
Through  the  long  aisle  of  honied  limes, 
To  rest  beneath  the  chambered  chimes. 

He  heard  thee  not,  nor  cared  to  hear ! 
Another  voice  was  in  his  ear, 
And,  freed  from  all  the  bonds  of  men, 
He  knew  the  awful  secret  then. 

Sweet  bell  of  Stratford,  toll,  and  be 
A  golden  promise  unto  me 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  235 

Of  that  great  hour  when  I  shall  know 
The  path  whereon  his  footsteps  go. 

WILLIAM  WINTER  (1890). 
(From  "  Gray  Days  and  Gold.") 


A   BAR   TO   ORIGINALITY. 

In  one  respect  Will  Shakespeare  is  a  curse ; 

To  literary  folk — like  me  and  you  ; 
He's  drawn  so  largely  on  fair  Nature's  purse, 

There's  really  nothing  left  for  us  to  do. 

JOHN  KENDRICK  BANGS  (1890). 


AFTER  READING  "TAMBURLAINE  THE 
GREAT." 

Your  Marlowe's  page  I  close,  my  Shakespeare's 

ope. 

How  welcome,  after  drum  and  trumpet's  din, 
The  continuity,  the  long,  slow  slope 
And  vast  curves  of  the  gradual  violin  ! 

WILLIAM  WATSON  (1890). 


236  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

THE  TWENTY-THIRD   OF    APRIL. 

A  little  English  earth  and  breathed  air 

Made  Shakspere  the  divine  :  so  is  his  verse 
The  broidered  soil  of  every  blossom  fair ; 
So  doth  his  song  all  sweet  bird  songs  re- 
hearse. 
But  tell  me,   then,   what  wondrous   stuff   did 

fashion 
That  part  of  him  which  took  those  wilding 

flights 
Among  imagined  worlds — whence  the  white 

passion 
That  burned   three   centuries   through   the 

days  and  nights? 
Not  heaven's  four  winds  could  make,  nor  the 

round  earth, 
The   soul  wherefrom   the   soul   of   Hamlet 

flamed ; 

Nor  anything  of  merely  mortal  birth 
Could  lighten  as  when  Shakspere's   name  is 

named. 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  237 

How  was  his  body  bred  we  know  full  well, 
But   that   high   soul's   engendering  who   may 

tell! 

R.  W.  GILDER. 

April  23,  1891. 


THE  THOUGHT   OF  SHAKESPEARE. 

The  thought  of  Shakespeare  is  like  vital  air ; 
Transfused  with  warmth  and  lustre  and  un- 
bounded, 

Of   azure,   cloud,   and   rainbow   hues    com- 
pounded, 

Tempestuous  here,  serene  and  sunny  there ; 
Astir  with  breaths  which  blow  from  regions 

rare, 
From  summits  which   no   pinion   yet   hath 

rounded, 

And  lights  which  glimmer  out  of  depths  un- 
sounded 

Sometimes  like  starlights  when  the  night  is 
fair. 


238  TRIBUTES    TO   SHAKESPEARE. 

Where  ends  that  thought,  the  arching  heavens 

are  lying, 
And  where  begins,    the   earth    all    reeking 

clings, 
So  doth  it  hold  the  elements  supplying 

Life's  various  force  that  even  foulest  things 
Draw   nourishment   from   thence,    and   there, 

wide-flying 
In  kindred  ether  soar  the  lightest  wings. 

RICHARD  EDWIN  DAY. 
May,  1891. 


BRIEF    TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

For  lofty  sense, 

Creative  fancy,  and  inspection  keen 
Through  the  deep  windings  of  the  human  heart, 
Is    not   wild    Shakspere   thine   and    Nature's 
boast  ? 

JAMES  THOMSON  (1700-1748). 

("The  Seasons — Summer.") 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  239 

And  divinest  Shakespeare's  might 
Fills  Avon  and  the  world  with  light. 

P.  B.  SHELLEY  (1792-1822). 


Shakespeare  !  on  whose  forehead  climb 
The  Crowns  o'  the  world  !  Oh,  eyes  sublime — 
With  tears  and  laughter  for  all  time! 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING  (1809-1861). 
("Vision  of  the  Poets.") 


Shakespeare,  loveliest  of  souls, 
Peerless  in  radiance,  in  joy ! 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD  (1822-1888). 
("  Heine's  Grave.") 


What  were  our  Shakespeare's  deathless  fame, 

Dependent  on  man's  jealous  praise  ? 
He  moves  before  us,  with  God's  claim 
To  kinghood  flashing  from  his  bays. 
GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER. 

("The  Book  of  .the  Dead.") 


240  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Beethoven,  Raphael,  cannot  reach 

The  charm  which  Homer,  Shakspere,  teach. 

To  these,  to  these,  their  thankful  race 

Gives,  then,  the  first,  the  fairest  place ; 

And  brightest  is  their  glory's  sheen, 

For  greatest  hath  their  labor  been. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 
(Epilogue  to  Lessing's  "  Laocoon.") 


Ah,  the  earth's   best   can  be  but  the   earth's 

best! 

Did  Shakespeare  live,  he  could  but  sit  at  home 
And  get  himself  in  dreams  the  Vatican, 
Greek  busts,  Venetian  paintings,  Roman  walls, 
And  English  books,  none  equal  to  his  own, 
Which  I  read,  bound  in  gold  (he  never  did). 

ROBERT  BROWNING  (1812-1889). 

("  Bishop  Blongram's  Apology.") 


The  morning  star,  the  guide  and  the  pioneer 

of  true  philosophy. 

COLERIDGE. 


TRIBUTES   TO    SHAKESPEARE.  241 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  though  none  hear 
Beside  the  singer ;  and  there  is  delight 
In  praising,  though  the  praiser  sit  alone 
And  see  the  praised  far  off  him,  far  above. 
Shakespeare  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world's. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

("  Sonnet  to  Robert  Browning.") 


Our  loved  bard,  the  sweetest  and  the  best 
Of  all  the  singers  of  our  English  tongue, 
Whose  fame  is  old,  whose  voice  is  ever  young. 
WILLIAM  LEIGHTON. 


Shakespeare,   the    wisest   of   men,    as    the 
greatest  of  poets. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


Shakespeare  is  a  great  psychologist,  and  we 
learn  from  his  pieces  the  secrets  of  nature. 

GOETHE. 
16 


242  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 

If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 

Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 

Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

M I LTON  ("  L' Allegro  ' ') . 


Shakespeare    has    had   neither    equal    nor 
second.  MACAULAY. 


I  should  like  to  have  been  Shakespeare's 
shoe-black — just  to  have  lived  in  his  house,  just 
to  have  worshipped  him — to  have  run  on  his 
errands,  and  seen  that  sweet  serene  face. 

W.  M.  THACKERAY. 


The  great  master  who  knew  everything. 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


He  wrote  the  play  the  Almighty  made. 

EDWARD  YOUNG, 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  243 

The  great  master  of  the  maxims  of  life  and 

conduct. 

DANIEL  WEBSTER. 


We  account  for  Shakespeare  as  we  account 
for  the  highest  mountain,  the  greatest  river. 

He  was. 

R.  G.  INGERSOLL. 


The  intellectual  measure  of  every  man 
since  born,  in  the  domains  of  creative  thought, 
may  be  assigned  to  him,  according  to  the  de- 
gree in  which  he  has  been  taught  by  Shake- 

speare. 

JOHN  RUSKIN. 


I  am  always  happy  to  meet  persons  who 
perceive  the  transcendent  superiority  of  Shake- 
speare over  all  other  writers. 

R.  W.  EMERSON. 


244  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

His  works  are,  next  to  the  Bible,  the  most 
precious  and  priceless  heritage  of  imaginative 

genius. 

F.  W.  FARRAR. 


The  protagonist  on  the  great  arena  of 
modern  poetry,  and  the  glory  of  the  human 

intellect. 

DE  QUINCEY. 

The  name  of  Shakespeare  is  the  greatest 
in  our  literature — it  is  the  greatest  in  all  lit- 
erature. 

HALLAM. 


Great  above  rule.  .  .  .  Nature  was  his  own. 

MALLETT. 


Consider  what  this  Shakespeare  has  actu- 
ally become  among  us. 

Which  Englishman  we  ever  made,  in  this 
land  of  ours,  which  million  of  Englishmen, 


TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE.  245 

would  we  not  give  up  rather  than  the  Stratford 
Peasant?  .  .  .  He  is  the  grandest  thing  we 
have  yet  done.  .  .  .  Consider  now,  if  they 
asked  us,  Will  you  give  up  your  Indian  Empire 
or  your  Shakespeare,  you  English  ;  never  have 
had  any  Indian  Empire,  or  never  have  had  any 
Shakespeare  ?  Really  it  were  a  grave  ques- 
tion. Official  persons  would  answer  doubtless 
in  official  language :  but  we,  for  our  part,  too, 
should  not  we  be  forced  to  answer :  Indian 
Empire,  or  no  Indian  Empire ;  we  cannot 
do  without  Shakespeare !  Indian  Empire  will 
go,  at  any  rate,  some  day ;  but  this  Shake- 
speare does  not  go,  he  lasts  forever  with  us : 
we  cannot  give  up  our  Shakespeare  ! 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


He  is  really,  really  the  genius :  he  has 
gone  to  the  bottom  of  everything,  divined  ev- 
erything, said  everything :  he  is  always  true 

to  nature. 

ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,  fits. 


246  TRIBUTES    TO    SHAKESPEARE. 

Altogether  "  a  manly  man "  (as  Chaucer 
says)  this  Shakespeare,  strong,  tender,  hu- 
mourful,  sensitive,  impressionable,  the  truest 
friend,  the  foe  of  none  but  narrow  minds  and 
base.  And  as  we  track  his  work  from  the 
lightness  and  fun  of  its  rise,  through  the  fairy 
fancy,  the  youthful  passion,  the  rich  imagin- 
ings, the  ardent  patriotism,  the  brilliant  sun- 
shine, of  his  first  and  second  times,  through 
the  tender  affection  of  his  Sonnets,  the  whirl- 
wind of  passion  in  his  Tragedies,  and  then  to 
the  lovely  sunset  of  his  latest  plays,  what  can 
we  do  but  bless  his  name,  and  be  thankful 
that  he  came  to  be  a  delight,  a  lift  and 
strength,  to  us  and  our  children's  children  to 
all  time — a  bond,  that  shall  last  forever  be- 
tween all  English-speaking,  English-reading 
men,  the  members  of  that  great  Teutonic 
brotherhood  which  shall  yet  long  lead  the 
world  in  the  fight  for  freedom  and  for  truth ! 

F.  J.  FURNIVALL. 
(Introd.  to  "  Leopold  "  Shakespeare.) 

THE    END. 


SHAKESPEARE. 

WITH  NOTES  BY  WILLIAM  J.  ROLFE,  A.M. 


The  Merchant  of  Venice. — The  Tempest. —Julius 
Coesar.— Hamlet.—  As  You  Like  It.— Henry  the  Fifth. 
—  Macbeth.  —  Henry  the  Eighth.  —  A  Midsummer- 
Night's  Dream.  —  Richard  the  Second.  —  Richard  the 
Third. — Much  Ado  About  Nothing. — Antony  and  Cle- 
opatra.— Romeo  and  Juliet. — Othello. — Twelfth  Night. 
— The  Winter's  Tale. — King  John. — Henry  IV.  Part 
I.— Henry  IV.  Part  II. — King  Lear.— The  Taming 
of  the  Shrew.— All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well.— Coriola- 
nus. — Comedy  of  Errors. — Cymbeline. — Merry  Wives 
of  Windsor. — Measure  for  Measure. — Two  Gentlemen 
of  Verona. — Love's  Labour  's  Lost. — Timon  of  Athens. 
—Henry  VI.  Part  I.— Henry  VI.  Part  II.— Henry 
VI.  Part  III.— Troilus  and  Cressida.— Pericles,  Prince 
of  Tyre. — The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen. — Poems. — Son- 
nets.— Titus  Andronicus. 

Forty  Volumes.     Illustrated.     Square   i6mo,   Flexible 
Cloth,  56  cents  per  vol. ;  Paper,  40  cents  per  vol. 


"FRIENDLY  EDITION,"  complete  in  20  vols., 
i6mo,  Sheets,  $22  oo  ;  Cloth,  $25  oo  ;  Half  Leather, 
$35  oo.  (Sold  only  in  Sets.) 


In  the  preparation  of  this  edition  of  the  English  Clas- 
sics it  has  been  the  aim  to  adapt  them  for  school  and 
home  reading,  in  essentially  the  same  way  as  Greek  and 
Latin  Classics  are  edited  for  educational  purposes.  The 
chief  requisites  are  a  pure  text  (expurgated,  if  necessary), 
and  the  notes  needed  for  its  thorough  explanation  and 
illustration.  Each  of  Shakespeare's  plays  is  complete  in 
one  volume,  and  is  preceded  by  an  Introduction  contain- 
ing the  "History  of  the  Play,"  the  "Sources  of  the  Plot," 
and  "  Critical  Comments  on  the  Play." 

(For  commendations,  see  next  page.) 


ROLFE'S  SHAKESPEARE. 


SOME  OPINIONS: 

Mr.  Rolfe,  having  learned  by  the  practical  experience 
of  the  class-room  what  aid  the  average  student  really 
needs  in  order  to  read  Shakespeare  intelligently,  has 
put  just  that  amount  of  aid  into  his  notes,  and  no  more. 
Having  said  what  needs  to  be  said,  he  stops  there.  It 
is  a  rare  virtue  in  the  editor  of  a  classic,  and  we  are  pro- 
portionately grateful  for  it. — Examiner,  N.  Y. 

This  work  has  been  done  so  well  that  it  could  hardly 
have  been  done  better.  It  shows  throughout  knowl- 
edge, taste,  discriminating  judgment,  and,  what  is  rarer 
and  of  yet  higher  value,  a  sympathetic  appreciation  of 
the  poet's  moods  and  purposes.  — N.  Y.  Times. 

Mr.  W.  J.  Rolfe's  capital  edition  of  Shakespeare.  .  .  . 
by  far  the  best  edition  for  school  and  parlor  use.  We 
speak  after  some  practical  use  of  it  in  a  village  Shake- 
speare Club.  The  notes  are  brief  but  useful ;  and  the 
necessary  expurgations  are  managed  with  discriminating 
skill.— Christian  Union,  N.  Y. 

Mr.  Rolfe's  excellent  series  of  school  editions  of  the 
Plays  of  Shakespeare  .  .  .  differ  from  some  of  the  Eng- 
lish ones  in  looking  on  the  plays  as  something  more  than 
word-puzzles.  They  give  the  student  helps  and  hints  on 
the  characters  and  meanings  of  the  plays,  while  the  word- 
notes  are  also  full  and  posted  up  to  the  latest  date. — 
Academy,  London. 

No  one  can  examine  these  volumes  and  fail  to  be  im- 
pressed with  the  conscientious  accuracy  and  scholarly 
completeness  with  which  they  are  edited.  The  educa- 
tional purposes  for  which  the  notes  are  written  Mr. 
Rolfe  never  loses  sight  of,  but,  like  a  "  well-experienced 
archer,  hits  the  mark  his  eye  doth  level  at." — HORACE 
HOWARD  FURNESS,  Ph.D.,  LL.D. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

Sgp^  The  above  work  is  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent 
by 'the  publishers,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States, 
Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


DQWDEN'S  SHAKSPERE. 

Shakspere.  A  Critical  Study  of  his  Mind  and 
Art.  By  EDWARD  DOWDEN,  LL.D.  12  mo, 
Cloth,  $i  75. 

We  have  read  the  book  with  unflagging  interest  and 
unstinted  enjoyment  from  the  first  page  to  the  last,  and 
we  pronounce  it  an  important  and  admirable  contribu- 
tion to  the  critical  literature  of  England.  —  Literary 
World,  London. 

The  principles  of  criticising  adopted  by  Mr.  Dowden 
in  these  researches  have  placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of 
Shaksperian  scholars. — N.  Y.  Sun. 

Dr.  Edward  Dowden  has  vindicated  his  high  position 
among  Shaksperians  in  this  work.  .  .  .  The  reader  of 
Dr.  Dowden  may  be  certain  that  he  has  heard  the  latest 
word  on  the  disputed  points.  His  opening  chapter,  on 
the  influences  of  the  age,  as  shown  in  its  poetry,  religion, 
philosophy,  and  manners,  under  which  Shakspere  grew 
up  and  ripened,  is  eloquent  and  able.  His  criticism  is 
cogent,  and  he  draws  impartially  upon  the  best  he  can 
find  in  other  commentators  to  illustrate  his  purpose. — 
N.  Y.  Herald. 

No  one  is  so  well  informed  on  the  subject  that  he  can 
afford  to  pass  these  studies  by  ;  and  for  one  who  is  not 
well  informed  there  is  no  more  rapid  nor  fruitful  meth- 
od of  entering  into  the  heart  of  the  Shakspere  lore  than 
by  devoting  himself  to  the  careful  reading  of  these  stud- 
ies.— Independent,  N.  Y. 

Professor  Dowden  thoroughly  understands  Shak- 
spere's  humor.  ...  A  better  book  as  an  introduction 
to  the  study  of  Shakspere  than  Professor  Dowden's  we 
do  not  know. —  Westminster  Review,  London. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

HSJp3'  The  above  work  is  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by 
tJte  ptiblishers,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States, 
Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


DYER'S  FOLK-LORE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 

Folk-Lore  of  Shakespeare.  By  the  Rev.  T.  F. 
THISELTON  DYER,  M.A.,  Oxon.,  Author  of 
"British  Popular  Customs,  Past  and  Pres- 
ent," etc.  Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

The  volume  sheds  light  in  two  directions :  upon  ob- 
scure passages  in  the  dramatist's  writings,  which  take  on 
a  new  significance  by  virtue  of  the  explanations  which 
are  given ;  and  upon  the  customs,  beliefs,  superstitions, 
and  habits  of  thought  which  prevailed  in  the  England  of 
Shakespeare's  day.  ...  As  a  companion  in  Shakespearian 
study,  or  as  a  repository  of  folk-lore,  this  engaging  vol- 
ume will  find  many  interested  readers. — Boston  Journal. 

The  author's  fidelity  and  industry  will  be  heartily  con- 
ceded by  the  appreciative  reader.  The  book  merits  a 
place  among  books  to  be  consulted  with  frequency.— -Jeiv- 
ish  Messenger,  N.  Y. 

The  book  is  not  only  invaluable  for  reference,  but  will 
be  found  very  entertaining  for  continuous  reading.  The 
full  citation  of  authorities  in  the  foot-notes  adds  to  its 
value  for  the  student  and  critic,  while  the  ten-page  index 
puts  every  detail  of  its  rich  and  varied  contents  at  their 
easy  command.  No  more  complete  and  authoritative 
work  on  the  subject  is  to  be  found  in  English. — Literary 
World,  Boston. 

An  admirable  commentary  upon  a  very  important  feat- 
ure in  the  Shakespearian  drama,  and  also  presenting  an 
entertaining  survey  of  manners  and  traditions.  Parallel 
citations  from  foreign  and  ancient  folk-lore  add  to  the 
interest  of  the  volume,  which  should  be  in  the  possession 
of  every  intelligent  reader  and  lover  of  Shakespeare's 
works. — Boston  Traveller. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

flgUr3  The  above  work  is  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by 
the  publishers,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States, 
Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


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